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Lippincott’s Series of V | 

^^""^^Select Novels’ 

12 mo. paper, 50 CENTS. CLOTH, 75 CENTS. i 


No. 132. A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. By Clara Lf:more.| 
No. 131. CORINTHIA MARAZION. By Cecil Griffith. 

No. 130. ONLY HUMAN; OR, JUSTICE. By John Strange WmTKBi 

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No. 116. A HOMBURG BEAUTY. By Mrs. Edward Kennard, 

No. 1 15. JACK’S SECRET. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 

No. 114. HERIOT’S CHOICE. By Rosa N. Carey. 

No. 1 13. TWO MASTERS. By B. M. Croker. 

No. 112. DISENCHANTMENT. An Every-Day Story. By F. Mabei 
Robinson. 

No. III. PEARL POWDER. By Annie Edwardes. 

No. no. THE JEWEL IN THE LOTOS. By Mary Agnes Tincker. 
No. 109. THE RAJAH’S HEIR. 

No. 108. SYRLIN. By Ouida. Cloth, $1.00. 

No. 107. A STUDY IN SCARLET. By A. Conan Doyle. 

No. 106. A LAST LOVE. By Georges Ohnet. \ 


Sold by all Booksellers^ or sent by the Publishers , post-paid^ on receipt of price. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 715X.717 Market St., Phila. 


A COVENANT 

WITH THE DEAD. 


A NOVEL. 


BY 

CLARA ^LEMORE, 'RoVjCTi 

7 " 

AUTHOR OF *‘A HARVEST OF WEEDS,” "PUT ASUNDER,” BTC. 



PR i3 1892 


PHILADELPHIA : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
1892. 


y<L 


, 4 ^ 










Copyright, 1892, 

BY ' 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 

J 




CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER I. 

A Night in the Open, 


PAGE 

7 

CHAPTER II. 

Impulse v. Instinct, 


16 

CHAPTER HI. 

The Strong Will Wins, .... 


30 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Story Begins, 

\ 

39 

CHAPTER V. 

The Off Chance, 


50 

CHAPTER VI. 

Abney Garth Brings Home the Heir, 


58 

CHAPTER VII. 

« 

“She’s Not Everything She Should be, ’’ 


72 

CHAPTER VHI. 

Abney Garth Carries out his Promise, 

. . . 

88 

CHAPTER IX. 

Mrs. George Mirfield Makes her First Definite Move, 

93 

CHAPTER X. 

George Mirfield takes up the Running, . 


105 


4 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER XI. 

PAGE 

An Interlude, 120 

CHAPTER XII. 

A Gleam of Sunshine Athwart a Shadowy Path, . . 129 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Man Without Intentions, 142 

CHAPTER XIV. 

George Mirfield Tells his Story, 154 


CHAPTER XV. 

‘ ‘ A Sweet Cup Subtly Seasoned with Sorrow, ” . .169 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A New Trail, 183 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Raking a Rubbish Heap, 197 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Crumb Picked up from the Wayside, .... 215 
^ CHAPTER XIX. 

‘ ‘ Is this Lady a Fit Inmate of your House ?” . .228 

» 

CHAPTER XX. 

“I Was the Indirect Cause of Arthur Mirfield’s 
Mesalliance, ” 245 

CHAPTER XXI. 


Dangling a Piece of Meat before a Hungry Dog, . . 256 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Mrs, Mirfield takes an Independent Step, . . . 275 


CONTENTS 


5 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

PAGE 

A Slip ’twixt Cup and Lip, 288 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

The Bitterest Drop in a Bitter Draught, . . . 302 

CHAPTER XXV. 

“If you Want a Thing Done Do it Yourself, ’’ . . 319 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Clem Does it Himself, 328 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

The Telegram from Redhead, 340 

CHAPTER XXVHI. 

Redhead’s Visitor Speaks Out, 347 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Charlotte’s Righteous Resentment, 362 

CHAPTER XXX. 

A Thundering Brick, 373 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ As IT Fell upon a Day ; in the Merry, Merry Month 
OF May,’’ • . . .385 




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A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD, 


CHAPTER I. 

A 2aGHT IK THE OPEK. 

It was a memorable run in more ways than one. 

The field was unusually large, and the fox unusually 
strong in the wind. As a rule, when the Llanrwst pack 
started their fox from the cover at the top end of Bryn- 
tirion, and the wind was from the nor’-west, those who 
were in the know were able to form their own conclusions 
as to the route to be taken, and to make their own plans 
for reaching the scene of the finish by the easiest and best 
road, irrespective of the fox’s whims on the subject of 
direct locomotion. But on this especial occasion the wise- 
acres were for once at a disadvantage, and those who stuck 
as near as might be to the dogs were those who were near- 
est home at the finish. 

And the wiseacres grumbled prodigiously. 

Who, they wanted to know, ever heard of a fox trying 
to climb a mountain after he had had the dogs at his tail 
for close on thirty minutes? 

There were more accidents that day than in the whole 
season besides. Men and horses who had the most unlim- 
ited confidence in each other, and good cause for the same, 
came to grief among the broken ground at the foot of 
the hill, which was a terra incognita alike to master and 
beast. 

It had been rather a slow day at the start. The first fox 
did not break away until close on one o'clock, and being a 



8 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


cunning old strategist, who knew his business thoroughly, 
he had kept the hunt on the jog from pillar to post for 
an hour and a half, and managed to give them the slip 
after all. 

After this a move was made for the Bryntirion covers, 
and at ten minutes past three they started a rouser. 
Everybody knew at once, by his style of breaking away, 
that they had got a teaser this time ; it had been a beastly 
day so far, but they were to have a good finish. 

Men, horses, and hounds alike shook themselves to- 
gether and prepared for a bit of smart work. By the time 
they reached the foot of Bryn-mawr everybody’s blood was 
fairly up, and then, when those in the first fiight were past 
thinking reasonably on any subject whatever, the fox, in- 
stead of keeping straight on down wind, as a fox might 
be expected to do, turned at right angles, and skirting 
round the east side of the hill, took a short, sharp run up 
wind, turned again, and dashed in among the boulders 
and gullies at the foot of the range. 

In after years that run became legendary in the annals 
of the Llanrwst hunt. When a member once got on to 
the account of that day’s casualties strangers were apt to 
shake their heads in good-natured doubt. And yet, as a 
matter of fact, it was almost impossible to exaggerate the 
list of the day’s disasters. 

Charlotte Kennett, eldest daughter of Hildebert Ken- 
nett, Esquire, of Kennett’s Wold, Yorkshire, at present on 
a visit to her sister, Mrs. Prys-Kees of Coed-y-Bychwn, 
was just at the tail of the first lot when the fox took that 
extraordinary turn up wind, and in among the broken 
ground, which so disconcerted his pursuers. 

As a rule. Bees brought his sister-in-law out himself, but 
to-day other duties claimed his time, and he had begged 
the good services of one of his tenants, a Mr. Evans, on her 
behalf. And Evans, having grown-up daughters of his 
own, was duly impressed by the responsibilities of his po- 
sition; but for this all might have gone well with him. 
He might have reached his home and family that evening 
none the worse for the day’s doings, and all that follows 
must have inevitably been ordered differently. 

As it was, his first thought, when he found himself 


A NIGHT IN THE OPEN. 


9 


among the shifting shingle and broken ground of the hill- 
side — ground almost impracticable for anything less sure- 
footed than a mountain pony — was for the intrepid young 
woman behind him. He had seen her and her horse Rhino 
do one or two things already before to-day, and he knew 
that wherever he led there she would follow. So, with a 
touch of regret on his own account, he turned his mare’s 
head resolutely aside at the first really nasty jump they 
came to, and signing to Miss Kennett to wait, he rode a bit 
more up the hill to see if the ravine narrowed higher up. 

Miss Kennett, inwardly rebelling, checked Rhino too, 
and waited a few seconds listening for her pioneer’s signal 
to come on. As she iaced her horse round to’ the wind 
she saw the western horizon piled high with solid, lumpy 
gray clouds, which looked as if they meant mischief ; and 
even as she stood two or three large snowflakes fluttered 
down irresolutely, as if they had been cast forth against 
their will, and settled on Rhino’s mane and the bosom of 
her habit. The wind was changing every instant, colder 
and colder. She shivered at its icy touch, and walked 
Rhino gently up the hill. It was already too cold to stand 
with safety. 

When she had gone some little distance she began to 
wonder why she did not meet, or at least see something of, 
Mr. Evans. 

It was now that the deathlike loneliness of the scene 
struck her for the first time. She found herself on the 
upward slope of a triangular valley, shut in on two sides 
by the rugged hills, open on the other to the softer level 
country below. There was not a living creature bar her 
horse and herself in sight. The hunt, as many of them as 
had got so far, had disappeared over a low ridge on her left, 
and as she waited again she fancied she heard a faint view- 
halloo in the distance. 

Feeling mad to have lost the finish by such a little bit, 
and rather indignant with Mr. Evans for being the cause 
of her disappointment, she determined to take matters into 
her own hands and jump the gully neck or nothing. But 
it was too dusk to do things rashly. She took the horse 
up to the ravine to have a look at the jump before putting 
him at it. To her astonishment, as they came up to the 


10 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


edge, the creature shied slightly, a vice hitherto unknown 
in him, and took his next step or two forward with pricked 
ears and lowered neck. 

The next instant Miss Kennett knew everything. 

In the shadow at the bottom of the gully, scarcely deeper 
here than a roadside ditch, lay the motionless figure of a 
man. 

With a startled cry she slid down from her saddle and 
scrambled down into the little hollow. Yes — it was Mr. 
Evans — Mr. Evans, with his face of a dull leaden color, all 
but one spot over his right eyebrow, where there was a 
patch of red of so vivid a color that it seemed as if all the 
usual healthy ruddiness of his cheeks had concentrated it- 
self in that smaller space. 

MissKennett’s heart tightened with a sudden awful fear 
as she knelt down and slid her hand inside the senseless 
man’s vest. No! Thank God, he was not dead. His 
heart was still beating — faintly, it is true. 

After that first sickening flash of terror this discovery 
was relief enough for the moment, and she busied herself 
with loosening his throat -gear and getting his head into 
a less cramped position, and doing one or two little things 
for his comfort. Then she found his flask — filled, thank 
Heaven, with brandy, and of goodly proportions to boot — 
and opening his teeth with the horn handle of her crop, 
she poured a few drops down his throat. After this his 
heart-beats strengthened slightly, and she got up out of 
the ditch and took a good look round. 

The snow-clouds from the west had by this time spread 
themselves out in a smooth, unbroken gray canopy over 
the whole extent of the sky, and the snow was falling 
quickly. Away in the valley below her faint lines of white 
were forming wherever a hedge afforded the snowflakes a 
few feet of shelter from the wind, which was rapidly in- 
creasing to a hurricane. Charlotte Kennett looked round 
at the helpless man in the hollow behind her, and then 
again at the dreary prospect in front, and a quick, over- 
whelming sensation of helplessness smote upon her. 

What should she do? Should she ride away at once for 
help? 

And leave the senseless man to be buried under the ap- 


A NIGHT IN THE OPEN. 


11 


preaching snowstorm, and to be in all probability frozen 
to death before he was discovered again? 

The idea was not to be entertained for a moment ; let it 
be for life or for death, she must stay there and do her 
best for the fellow-creature so curiously thrown upon her 
mercy. At the thought of passing the night upon the 
mountain-side with him her heart grew such a craven 
within her that she put the idea from her with resolute 
determination, and refused to contemplate the possibility 
of the thing. Search parties would, of course, be sent out 
as soon as it was discovered that they were missing. His 
riderless horse would certainly be seen by somebody, who 
would at once give the alarm. At the worst it would only 
be a temporary inconvenience that she would have to put 
up with. 

But, meantime, it was dreadful that her charge should 
lie out there in the open, with the snowflakes drifting 
down on his unconscious gray face. And yet, what could 
she do with him ? 

About a dozen yards higher up the gully appeared to 
end abruptly, blocked up by a huge slab of rock which 
projected five or six feet forward over the hollow. If she 
could get him in there he would at least be out of the wind 
and beyond the reach of the snow. She went a little 
nearer to examine the cranny, Khino following her like a 
dog, evidently a little exercised in his mind as to the mean- 
ing of this unprecedented finish to the day’s run. 

The darkness was falling with astonishing rapidity. 
When she got back to her helpless charge again she had to 
lean over him to see his face at all, and, doing so, met the 
unperceptive gaze of his wide-open eyes. 

“Thank God!” she cried fervently. “Oh, thank God 
you are coming round ! Now, perhaps, I shall be able to 
get you under shelter before the fury of the storm reaches 
us. Do you think you could get on your feet?” 

The eyes grew less untroubled, and the brow took a look 
of perplexity. She saw the effort at thought and encour- 
aged it. 

“ Try to understand what I am saying to you,” she went 
on, speaking with slow distinctness ; “ try with all your 
might to understand. You have been badly thrown, and 


12 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

you and I are alone on the mountain-side, and there is a 
heavy snowstorm coming on. I want you to try to move 
a few steps to a place of shelter I have found — will you? 
We shall both be frozen here.” 

Through the dusk she saw his lips moving, but no sound 
came. Kneeling by his side, she gave him a few drops 
from the flask, and waited a little before she said again : 

“ Will you try to move a few steps — only a very few?” 

This time the words came — faint, husky, and uncertain, 
but reasonable. 

“ The stirrup,” he said; “ put the stirrup within reach.” 

Wondering, she did as he bid her, leading Khino 
down into the ditch a little way lower down, and bringing 
the docile beast up to his side. Then she saw what he 
meant. When he had got the stirrup in his hand he tried 
to raise himself by its help. 

Seeing this, she got behind him and used all her vigor- 
ous young strength to second his endeavors, steadying the 
horse meantime with such expressive words and sounds as 
might be expected to reach his undertanding. But in hon- 
est truth the brute did not need these verbal encourage- 
ments to do his duty ; by this time he knew pretty well all 
there was to know, and was only too glad to be of help in 
the crisis. 

And at last Evans was on his feet and moving, with one 
arm round the pommel of the saddle and the other round 
Miss Kennett’s shoulders. But it was only a very few 
steps he travelled before he began to sway heavily. She 
felt him coming, and managed to break the shock of his 
fall. He had swooned again. 

How many times this happened — before she at last had 
him safe under the shelter of the overhanging rock — she 
did not know. Sometimes she lost heart for a breathless 
second or two, and almost resigned herself to sitting quietly 
down by his side and giving up the struggle. But at these 
times the memory of his women-folk at home always came 
to her as a reproach. Were they to be rendered widowed 
and fatherless because she had not the strength and cour- 
age to persevere? And so these momentary little surren- 
ders always ended in another effort, another minute of 
violent muscular exertion, of eager encouragement to her 


A NIGHT IN THE OPEN. 


13 


helpless companion — a minute of straining, tearing, striv- 
ing breathlessness on her part, of dogged effort on the part 
of the suffering man, of perfect patience and helpfulness 
on the part of the horse — and at last they were at the place 
where they would be, and Charlotte Kennett could have 
cried with joy only to see him safely out of reach of the 
whirling snowflakes and the piercing wind. 

But just now was not the right time for the display of 
weak emotion. While there was yet a few minutes of that 
twilight which is but the ghost of the departed day still 
left to her, she tramped out again into the open and gath- 
ered close-packed armfuls of the dead autumn bracken, 
which still clung thickly to the slopes and steeps on all 
sides. With these she built a Are — out of the hollow and 
round the angle of the rock, where Khino would not see 
the flicker of the flames — and set it alight, hoping against 
hope that its glimmer might be seen from afar, and guide 
some of the searchers to her poor little camp. 

Some more of the bracken she pressed closely round and 
piled high over the injured man, and presently she suc- 
ceeded in getting Khino to lie down close at his side, and 
the horse, too, she covered with the dry, brittle stuff high 
over his flanks, hoping thus to keep out the flrst keen edge 
of the night’s bitterness. She gave the beast some weak 
brandy and water, mixing a little of the spirit with melted 
snow, and letting him draw it up out of her hollowed 
hands. It was not exactly as good as a warm mash, per- 
haps, but he recognized the fact that it was the best sub- 
stitute she could manage, and nosed her over after it with 
every sign of gratitude. 

It was well for them all that she had to be so busy as to 
preclude any idea of rest for herself. There was the 
fire to be kept replenished, and this necessitated constant 
tramps out and about in search of fuel, and there was a 
mouthful of brandy to be administered to the patient as 
often as he showed signs of consciousness. Once in her 
perambulations she came across a sheltered nook where the 
snow had not drifted, carpeted with dainty grass, which 
she plucked with her hands and carried down to the 
hungry Rhino. Another time she lost sight of her fire for 
a second or two, and imagining herself lost, and realizing 


14 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


in a flash the horror of a night out there alone, she went 
sick with dread and terror. But the next moment the 
friendly little glimmer came into view again, and she 
rushed back to it with headlong speed, and was amazed to 
find how homelike it felt to be there by the poor little 
glow again, with Ehino’s tail showing round the corner of 
the rock in the little hollow at her feet, and her stack of 
twigs and bracken close by in a convenient cleft out of 
reach of the snow. 

For the snow still went on falling all the long night 
through. 

By-and-by she found another occupation. As the pa- 
tient’s swoons grew less frequent he became more alive to 
his physical sufferings, and though he made no positive 
sign of what he was enduring, being anxious not to add to 
the manifold horrors of his guardian’s position, her keen 
ear detected a change in his voice — a change from exhaus- 
tion to more acute suffering. 

He had not known he had betrayed himself until she 
brought a bandage, improvised out of her own handker- 
chief and his cravat, and moistened with snow, and lifting 
his head on her knee, bound it lightly round his throbbing 
temples. 

“That is heaven!” he sighed softly, and Ehino, seized 
perhaps with some sudden whim of jealousy, reached his 
slim nose forward and slid it insinuatingly into her unoc- 
cupied hand. 

She sat there for some little time with the two heads on 
her knee, the man’s face set and ashy gray, and the eyes 
firm closed in silent endurance; the brute’s open and at- 
tentive, glancing here and there at the snowflakes falling 
beyond the shelter of the rock, as they caught the firelight 
and eddied about in fantastic swirls and rushes, as if in 
delighted gloating over the distress and calamity they be- 
held in the recess down there. 

In that short pause from physical exertion she found 
herself imagining weird horrors. It seemed to her that 
this terrible experience was a punishment laid upon her 
for her sins, that this was no ordinary night, with its ap- 
pointed hours of darkness and its inevitable finish at the 
approach of a new day. The fancy grew and intensified 


A NIGHT IN THE OPEN. 


15 


within her that to this night there was to be no end, that 
they were to go on and on and on through dim, countless 
ages waiting in this little hollow for the morning which 
was never to dawn, waiting always, with no sound in their 
ears but the moaning and shrieking of the wind as it tore 
past the shoulder of the mountain behind them, no view 
within their vision but the whirling, eddying, shifting 
curtain of snowflakes, which seemed to have shut them oS 
from the rest of the world for ever and ever. 

The notion got such a hold upon her at last that she 
began to be afraid her senses were deserting her. She got 
up and moved about, trying to flght back this new terror, 
and then in her helplessness she put her hands together, 
and with the snow beating at her from all sides, and with 
the hurricane singing its threatening dirge in her ears, she 
prayed such a prayer as she had never before prayed in her 
life. 

The mental exaltation of the effort calmed and steadied 
her, and with renewed courage she resumed her unwearied 
ministrations to the helpless man, her eager care of the 
fire, and her persuasive coaxings to the dumb member of 
the party whose store of animal heat had such a large 
share in saving Eichard Evans’ life that night. 

And good was it for that same Eichard Evans that 
Charlotte Kennett was no self-indulgent, pampered, sinew- 
less miss of modern affectations, but a hardy, robust young 
creature, accustomed to enjoying the use of the muscles 
her Maker had bestowed upon her, and with a mind as free 
from fanciful failings as her body. Had it been otherwise 
she must inevitably have succumbed to the horrors which 
assailed her one after the other through the hours of that 
eternal night; and when in the dim, gray twilight of the 
autumn morning a party of searchers at last stumbled 
across the tiny camp under the rock the chances are that, 
instead of finding a survival of light vitality and warmth 
they might have found a harvest of death. 


16 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


CHAPTER II. 

IMPULSE V. INSTINCT. 

Coed-y-Bychwn had been kept as quiet as the grave all 
the day through. The servants had moved about the 
house as silently as ghosts, no gongs had been sounded. 
The guests had crept up and down the staircases with foot- 
falls of velvet and bated breath, and those among them 
who had used horses or carriages, though very few had 
cared to turn out after the night of sleepless anxiety they 
had passed through, had gone through the hack of the 
house to the stables to mount, so that Charlotte Kennett’s 
rest should not he broken by the passing of a wheel or a 
hoof -beat under her window. 

And she had slept as it was right and proper she should 
sleep after such an ordeal as she had gone through. Per- 
fect quiet, a hot bath, a double dose of strong soup, and a 
big sleep had been the doctor’s prescription when she had 
reached the house at seven o’clock in the morning, and 
the prescription had been carried out to the letter, with 
the result that now, at four in the afternoon, she was sit- 
ting in the deep arm-chair in front of a blazing fire in her 
own room, wrapped in a cosy old crimson dressing-gown, 
and looking scarcely any the worse for her melodramatic 
adventure. She was so much her usual self that when her 
sister came stealing into the room to make her inquiries, 
with the footstep and general deportment which belong 
exclusively to sick-rooms, Charlotte received her with a gay 
little laugh. 

“Don’t do that, Milly, my dearest,” she cried, “or I 
shall begin to think I am desperately had. How beauti- 
fully quiet the house has been all day, or is it that I have 
slept through everything?” 

Mrs. Rees stooped and kissed her with a warmth which 
was the outward expression of her very real relief. 

“You are really a wonderful creature,” she said admir- 
ingly. “ I don’t believe I know another woman who would 
have gone through such an ordeal and come out of it as 


IMPULSE V. INSTINCT. 


17 


you have.” She put her hand down as she spoke and 
turned Charlotte’s face a little more to the window. 
“ Looked at by this light, you scarcely even look paler than 
usual; there is just the shadow of fatigue under your eyes, 
et voila tout!’* 

“And why not?” asked Charlotte. “Did you expect I 
should have an attack of brain fever? I suppose I gave 
you all a rare fright, Milly?” 

Mrs. Kees opened her eyes and clasped her hands and 
caught her breath. The little performance was more ex- 
pressive than half an hour of words. 

“I will tell you all about that by-and-by,” she said. 
“ What I came up about now was to see if you felt equal to 
a visitor?” 

“ A visitor?” 

“Yes, or rather two. I hinted as strongly as I well 
could that it would he better to defer the visit for a day or 
two, but the poor thing is in such a state of emotion that 
it seemed cruel to pour cold water on her wish to see 
you.” 

“ Who is it?” 

“ Mrs. Evans and one of her daughters.” 

“Oh, Milly, my child!” 

“ Yes, I knew you wouldn’t like it, and I did my best, 
but — you see you must go through with it, sooner or later, 
Lotte. It’s natural the poor soul should want to thank 
you ; I should, myself, in her place. I’d get it over, and 
have done with it, if I were you.” 

“It will be simply awful!” said Charlotte despairingly; 
“ but, as you say, there are her feelings to be thought of, 
too. Yes, I’ll see her, and get it over.” 

Mrs. Kees turned as she moved toward the door. 

“ Will you have a lamp?” 

“ I think not ; the twilight will be less embarrassing, 
less ceremonious. No, we will get our chat over in the 
half light.” 

But even so it was a rather trying little interview. 

Mrs. Evans’ emotions were so palpably beyond her pow- 
ers of expression that that fact alone gave an overburdened 
feeling to the mental atmosphere. Charlotte felt insecure 
the whole time the grateful woman was in the room ; she 


18 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


felt that at any moment there might be a sudden upheaval 
of the forces at work, that at any instant she might be 
carried away by her agitation, and fling herself on her 
knees and seize the hands of her husband’s preserver in 
hers, and cover them with her kisses and tears,' and at 
this time in her life Charlotte Kennett was almost man- 
nish in her horror of a scene. 

Another thing which made her uncomfortable was the 
good lady’s habit of dragging in quotations from the 
Scriptures, doing it in such an odd, inconsequent fashion 
that Miss Kennett ’s strong distaste sometimes gave way 
suddenly to her sense of the ridiculous, and she was seized 
with a mad inclination to give way to immoderate laughter. 

“ If my tongue was the pen of a ready writer. Miss Ken- 
nett,” she said, in a voice tremulous with deep feeling, and 
with brimming tears in her eyes, “ I might perhaps be able 
to tell you how full my heart is of gratitude. Though, 
indeed, for that matter, how anybody’s tongue could ever 
be turned into a pen was always a thing that puzzled me. 
For my part I would rather use my tongue than my pen 
any day, for if I’m a bad speaker I’m a worse writer, and 
if I ever try to express myself strongly in writing it always 
ends in so many blots and crossings-out that at last I forget 
myself what I meant to say. And indeed,” she added, 
with sudden surprise at flnding she had worked round to 
an appropriate remark promiscuously, “ and indeed that is 
what I am doing now. Miss Kennett — I am forgetting 
what I wanted to say, though, as far as that goes, I could 
never say all I wanted if I went on trying without stopping 
for a month.” 

“Well, then, don’t distress yourself by trying at all,” 
put in Charlotte, with a gravity highly laudable under the 
circumstances. “ You see, Mrs. Evans, I know so'“exactly 
what it is you want me to understand. You are anxious 
that I should know that you think I was very brave and 
good not to desert Mr. Evans on the hillside last night. 

Well, I do know that you think it, but I’ll tell you 

a little secret, you and your daughter, if you will both 
promise not to betray me to the whole world. The real 
honest truth is that I was not a bit brave at heart. My 
staying with him was really rather a proof of cowardice 


IMPULSE V. INSTINCT. 


19 


than courage, for, all hurt as he was, poor soul, I felt his 
presence a protection against the terror of the night.” 

“ And the cold bandage for his head, and the brandy, 
alid covering him up with the bracken?” 

“ It all gave me occupation and helped me to pass the 
time, you know,” said Charlotte rather apologetically. 

“ Oh, yes I know!” exclaimed Mrs. Evans, with a kind 
of fierceness. “ I know that you are one of those good 
women whose price is above rubies, one of those whose vir- 
tues are a crown to her husband, or, at least, they will be 
when you have one. The crown is there, all the same, 
whether the husband is or not, and it’s not your fault that 
he is not there to wear it.” This was almost too much. 
Charlotte rose suddenly with some wild idea of flight, and 
catching sight, over her mother’s shoulder, of Miss Evans’ 
face in the background, sat down again as suddenly, and 
composed her face with stern decorum. “ Of course we 
are taking up your time,” continued Mrs. Evans, putting 
her own construction on the impetuous action. “ I was 
forgetting that you must be tired. But one forgets most 
things when one’s heart is full of just one feeling — full to 
the brim, pressed down and running over, as mine is with 
gratitude. We will bid you good-night. Miss Kennett. 
Meg, bid Miss Kennett good-night, and if you can say a 
word on your own account, do. I’m surprised that you 
haven’t found anything to say, you that’s your father’s 
favorite child, too.” 

“ I hope you won’t trouble to do anything of the sort,” 
said Charlotte, putting out her hand to the girl, who came 
forward with a certain shrinking reluctance, which ap- 
peared to Miss Kennett to be caused by her consciousness 
of her mother’s trying manner. When the girl drew near 
her she was surprised to discover how pretty and refined she 
was in looks and manner — surprised, because Mrs. Evans 
scarcely impressed one as being likely to have dainty 
daughters. But, then, she was very young, scarcely more 
than a child, and perhaps the dim light flattered her a lit- 
tle, too. In another few years the chances were that she 
would be more like her mother’s daughter. “ I hope you 
won’t trouble to do anything of the sort. Miss Evans,” said 
Charlotte, with a hand outstretched in friendly warmth. 


20 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ It will please me far more if you leave your word un- 
said.” 

“Yes, I know exactly,” answered Miss Evans, in a low, 
shaken voice, which yet had no signs of her mother’s 
tremulousness about it. “ I know how a generous person 
always hates to be thanked, and words are such empty 
things. If I could only do something for you. Miss Ken- 
nett, if it could only come in my way to be able to serve 
you, in ever such a little thing, how glad I should be, and 
how proud!” 

“Foolish child!” cried Charlotte, touched curiously by 
some note of vivid intensity in the low, quivering voice, 
the close pressure of the small, trembling fingers, “ foolish, 
romantic little girl!” 

Miss Kennett was anything but a demonstrative woman, 
but some impulse of liking for this Welsh farmer’s daugh- 
ter prompted her to do a rather unusual thing ; she drew 
the eager, earnest little face down and kissed it. 

“I don’t wonder you are your father’s favorite child,” 
she said, smiling into the shining eyes, which looked so 
beautiful with the leaping flame-light dancing in them ; 
“ I should make a favorite of you, too, if I saw much of 
you. Good-night.” 

Mrs. Rees returned to her sister’s room as soon as she 
knew her visitors had left her. 

“Did they worry you very much?” she asked. “Did 
Mrs. Evans shower religious blessings on you? She is a 
red-hot Methodist, like all the people about here. Did 
she make herself much of a nuisance?” 

“ She might possibly have been worse,” Charlotte admit- 
ted. “ She was intensely funny, i very nearly laughed in 
her face once. I believe I should have done, only the 
daughter seemed so distressingly conscious of her mother’s 
absurdities.” 

“ Oh, was that it? I wondered why she was so reluctant 
to come up.” 

“ W^as she reluctant?” 

“Yes. She wanted to stay down-stairs and send her 
mother up alone.” 

“Shy, perhaps.” 

“ Well, I should scarcely call Margaret Evans shy, as a 


IMPULSE V, INSTINCT. 


21 


rule. At any rate, she is not shy with the men. Evans 
gave the shooting party a luncheon down at the farm two 
or three weeks ago, and they all came home full of this 
child’s prettiness and fascination. This is her first year 
home from school, I believe, and her father is very proud 
of her. Tom says they had terrible scenes with her last 
night, when her father’s mare came home to the stable in 
the height of the snow-storm without him.” 

“ It must have been an awful night for them,” Charlotte 
said feelingly, 

“Awful? I should think so!” answered the other with 
meaning. “ It was awful for us all. I don’t believe a 
soul in the house here went to bed properly. Every time 
one of the searching parties came back there was a flock of 
dressing-gowns crowded around the top of the staircase. I 
believe Mrs. Pell never took herself to pieces at all ” 

“Now,Milly!”_ 

“ Well, my dear, if I don’t make fun of something I shall 
not be able to talk about it without crying ” 

“ Oh, for goodness’ sake don’t do that.” 

“No, I don’t want to, if I can help it. But you know 
I can’t look at you without feeling that I want to hug you 
and howl over you.” 

“ My dear, I hope you won’t.” 

“No, I won’t, because I know you don’t like fuss; but 
all the same, Lotte, we were all worked up to a tremendous 
pitch last night. I had a narrow shave of hysterics myself, 
when Tom’s party came back the second time, at three 
o’clock this morning, without a sign of news of you, and 
as for Mirfield — well, simply, I never saw a man in such a 
state of agitation.” 

“Now then, Milly!” 

“ He was!” said Milly, with a sudden touch of assertion. 
“ I tell you he was almost out of his mind with anxiety.” 

Miss Kennett turned her face toward the fire with a 
quick movement which was almost suggestive of irritation. 

“ Can’t you let that drop, Milly?” she said. 

Mrs. Kees looked at her beseechingly, and there was a 
touch of disappointment also in the look. 

With all Charlotte Kennett’s pleasant outspokenness, it 
was not an easy thing to work one’s-self into her confidence 


22 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


on those rare occasions when she chose to be reticent, and 
this question of Lord Mirfield’s feeling for her, and hers for 
him, was just one of those rare occasions. She and Mirfield 
had spent the last month at Ooed-y-Bychwn, and yet this 
was the first chance Mrs. Rees had had since their arrival 
of making an allusion to the matter which had lain so near 
her heart all the time. 

And she had hoped so much from this visit, too. 

Ever since Charlotte and Mirfield had been boy and girl 
together it had been a pet scheme between the heads of the 
two families that, by means of the young people, the rich 
estate of Kennett’s Wold should in time become a part of 
the family belongings of the Earls of Netley. 

The youngsters had always shown a strong partiality for 
each other, ever since the day when Charlotte had started 
a course of classical reading at Netley Fallow with the two 
Mirfield boys and their new tutor, Mr. Abney Garth. 

Arthur Mirfield, the younger son of the earl, did not 
care for the classics, Lionel and Charlotte did, and it came 
about as a natural consequence that they found one another’s 
society congenial at this period of their lives. 

Mrs. George Mirfield, the earl’s sister-in-law, who had 
established herself in Netley village — much to Lord Net- 
ley’s annoyance — was the first person to remark upon the 
young people’s liking for one another, and to hint at its 
probable consequence, and, much as Lord Netley was given 
to object to any plan which originated with his brother’s 
widow, he could not be blind to the advantages of such a 
marriage. 

The idea once started, the two fathers had taken to it 
very kindly indeed, and from that time forward no legiti- 
mate opportunity for increasing the intimacy had been 
neglected. 

And yet, in spite of everything, the affair had not come 
to its expected crisis, and Charlotte was now on the verge 
of twenty-five. 

Mrs. Rees, two years younger, and already a wife of two 
years’ standing, was secretly much distressed by the pres- 
ent state of things. 

That Charlotte, with her fine fortune — for Miss Kennett 
was her father’s heiress — her charming face and figure, and 


IMPULSE V. INSTINCT. 


23 


her grand disposition, should be wasting all the best years 
of her life, seemed to the happy little wife and mother 
absolute sacrilege. 

It was some faint hope of bringing things to a climax 
which had led Mrs. Eees to invite the two interested par- 
ties for a longer stay than usual this year, and yet they had 
been in the house a month, showing all the time the same 
partiality as ever for one another’s society, and things 
seemed to be just where they had been seven years ago. 

Whose fault was it ? Mrs. Eees was asking of herself as 
she sat and watched her sister’s face in the firelight, feel- 
ing very much snubbed by that last request to “ let that 
drop.” Was it Charlotte’s own fault, or was it Mirfield’s? 

If Lotte would only be a little more like other young 
women, if she would only let one get a glimpse of her real 
feeling on the subject. She must care a little for Mirfield, 
else why had she steadily refused all other offers, why did 
she so openly show that she preferred his attentions before 
all others? 

And yet she would not hear a word on the subject, and 
openly derided any allusion to his interest in her! 

It was very perplexing, little Mrs. Eees decided, very 
perplexing, and exceedingly disappointing to have all her 
hopes dashed by Lotte’s refusal to move hand or foot in 
the matter. 

“ I almost begin to think, Lotte,” she began again, after 
that long pause in the cosy firelight, “ I am really inclined 
to fancy that you must have some settled crotchet in your 
head about poor Mirfield. My dear girl,” she added, with 
a touch of expostulation in her manner, as the other 
twitched her head away again, “ I really think you ought 
to let me say my say this once. You have never treated 
us fairly over this business, Lotte. A girl has no right to 
go on year after year, as you have done, being so friendly 
to a man if she doesn’t care enough for him to marry 
him.” 

Charlotte shifted her fair, well-shaped head again, as if 
the padding of the chair was causing her some discomfort, 
and Mrs. Eees, seeing she meant to make no further reply, 
took heart of grace and went on : 

“ What I object to most of all is your inconsistency. 


24 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


You are so contradictory — you will let Mirfield do more for 
you than any other man in the world, you allow him to 
devote himself to you for weeks at a stretch, and yet when 
I hint that he showed a little ordinary anxiety about you, 
you choose to pooh-pooh the idea, as if ” 

“Oh, ordinary anxiety, I dare say,” put in Charlotte; 
“ but you were insinuating that his anxiety was a different 
sort of thing to anybody else’s, you know, Milly.” 

“And so it was,” said Milly stoutly; “he was up and 
down between here and the farm half a dozen times. He 
was nearly beside himself.” 

“ I think you are exaggerating, Milly — unintentionally, 
perhaps ” 

“ I am not exaggerating the least bit, Lotte. Why do 
you find it so difficult to believe? Is it because he is not 
effusive in a general way? I wish you had seen him for 
yourself. Perhaps it needed something of this kind to 
make him know his own mind. You would hardly have 
known him last night — I hardly knew him myself.” 

There was another pause in the firelit room, during which 
Milly kept her eyes on the thoughtful face opposite her. 
What was the hitch between those two? She would have 
given a great deal to know. 

“ Lotte,” she said at last, with a sudden impetuosity 
which brought Miss Kennett out of her fit of abstraction 
with a start, “ Lotte, I do wish for once you’d open out 
and tell me what it is that has stood between you and Mir- 
field all these years!” 

Charlotte seemed to catch some spark of her heat, and 
answered instantly, on impulse; 

“ It is just that I don’t believe he cares for me as I care 
for him, and I can imagine no such hell upon earth as to 
live with a man you love and find out gradually that he 
does not love you. Now, Milly, you’ve got it.” 

“ Then — he has proposed, I suppose?” 

“Oh, yes; he has proposed twice. You don’t suppose 
that masterful old man at The Fallow would have allowed 
things to go on as they have been going all these years if 
he could have altered it?” 

“ How do you mean, Lotte?” 

“ I mean that he commanded Mirfield to propose to me, 


IMPULSE V INSTINCT. 


25 


and, like the dutiful son that he is, Mirfield carried out his 
father’s orders.” 

Mrs. Eees made an impatient little movement with her 
hands and shoulders. 

“You are a most incomprehensible creature,” she said. 
“ You confess you care for the man, you refuse all other 
olfers for his sake — I suppose it is for his sake — and yet 
when he asks you you refuse him. Do you mean to live 
single all your life for the sake of a mere whim?” 

“A whim?” echoed Miss Kennett. Her little touch of 
hurjy w'as over now, and she had returned to her previous 
manner, perhaps she was even regretting her candor. “ A 
whim?” she repeated, as if she were weighing the full 
meaning of the word. “ If I could think it was only a 
whim, Milly! If I could persuade myself into believing 
that Mirfield proposed to me for any better reason than be- 
cause he thought it was expected of him under the circum- 
stances.” 

“ I wish, with all my heart, you could have seen him last 
night, Lotte.” 

“Well,” she said, with a slight laugh at her own ex- 
pense, “ if it would have done anything toward convincing 
me that I have been mistaken in his feeling for me all this 
time, I wish it too. I’m afraid I am only too open to con- 
viction on that point, Milly.” 

There was something in the manner of the words that 
made Mrs. Eees feel a touch of pity for the speaker. It 
was a feeling so out of keeping with its object that she was 
surprised at it; it seemed so out of place to pity Charlotte. 

“ It is a whim, Lotte,” she reiterated, as she rose in an- 
swer to the first bell ; “ as surely as you live, it is nothing 
but a whim. He cares for you as much as it is in him to 
care for anybody. He is not a man of heroic emotions, 
but I should think he could be tender and true and loyal, 
and Heaven knows that ought to satisfy any woman in 
these days. Be sensible, dear, and make up your mind to 
be happy.” 

Miss Kennett recalled the phrase two or three times 
while she was dressing. 

On this occasion she wondered whether the two things 
were synonymous. Would it be sensible to allow herself to 


26 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


be bappy in this particular way? She was afraid with a 
great fear, and yet — and yet how hard her heart pleaded to 
be heard against her better judgment. 

When she appeared in the drawing-room she found, a 
little to her own quiet amusement, that she was to be made 
the heroine of. It was what Mrs. Eees called a “ neigh- 
bors’ night,” and the room was pretty full. 

As she reached the doorway a group of men talking near 
her stopped their conversation abruptly and came toward 
her. The movement drew general attention that way, and 
the result was a kind of triumphal entry, with all eyes on 
her, amid an odd little hush of expectation. 

Eees’ nephew, Harry Carthews, just home from his first 
term at Eton, found the opportunity irresistible. Jumping 
up on to the ottoman, as Charlotte came near the middle 
of the room, he threw his hand above his head and shouted 
oat in shrill excitement, “ Three cheers for the plucky 
heroine of Bryn-mawr.” 

There was a huge shout of laughter from the whole 
room, but the little chap’s eager enthusiasm was like the 
spark to the train, and when he sung out, “ Now then, 
gentlemen, take your time from me, and let it go free! 
Hip, hip, hooray!” there was a swift uprising of all the 
men in the room, and Charlotte stood laughing, with her 
hands over her ears to shut out the deafening din. 

The next moment everybody came crowding round her, 
all conventionality cast aside in the genuine emotion of 
the little incident, each eager to shake her hand and offer 
their word of congratulation on her courage and escape. 

“I really quite enjoyed it,” said Mrs. Pell, later on, to 
her confidante of the hour — Mrs. Pell’s life was passed in 
making confidences — “ it gave one quite a little thrill for 
the moment. I wish such moments were more frequent ; 
life would be better worth living. Eepose of manner is a 
very good thing in its way, but I think its way would be 
better if it did not tend so inevitably to the repression of 
all feeling-— the good as well as the bad and the indiffer- 
ent.” Which remark had perhaps a shade more real mean- 
ing in it than Mrs. Pell’s remarks had as a general rule. 

Lord Mirfield had only just reached the drawing-room 
door when young Harry gave the time for those lusty 


IMPULSE V, INSTINCT. 


27 


cheers — he had volunteered to see Mrs. Evans and her 
daughter safely home and bring back the latest news of 
Evans’ condition, and was late in consequence — and so it 
happened that his hand-shake and congratulations to Char- 
lotte came among the last. 

When Charlotte felt his hand-clasp and met his glance 
she saw at once that Milly had been right — the whole affair 
had stirred him very deeply — and if his emotions were not 
of an heroic type they were genuine, and at times even 
impressive. 

Charlotte had never felt this so much as now, when he 
stood with her hand in his, and his beautiful violet eyes, 
deep and glowing with the thrill of the moment, full upon 
her face. 

“ There have been times,” he said, “ in the last twenty- 
four hours when I believed I should never hold your hand 
again. They were terrible times, Charlotte — very terrible. ” 

Charlotte felt this new depth was what she had always 
needed in his manner, and the keen joy of it turned her a 
little pale. He saw it at once. 

“ All this excitement is too much for you,” he exclaimed 
penitently. “ It is selfish of us all not to have more con- 
sideration for you. Let us find a quiet corner for a few 
minutes. ” 

The other folks all fell away, as they had a habit of do- 
ing when those two got together, and Mirfield took her off 
to an inner room, where the light, seen through the open- 
ing in the curtains, was more subdued, and there was a 
general air of seclusion, which was yet not unsociable. 

“ I can never tell you what I went through last night,” 
he said as they moved away, “ never! Words would not do 
it ! And then, when I heard that you were safe, and again, 
when I listened to the story of your bravery and endurance 
— Mrs. Evans has been telling me about it — it made my 
heart burn. The whole thing has lifted me out of myself 
as I never thought anything would. We have always been 
a great deal to each other, you and I, why won’t you let us 
be even more, Charlotte? Why won’t you give me the 
proud right to stand up before the world and say, ‘ This splen- 
did creature belongs to me’ ? It would make me so proud 
— so proud and happy.” 


28 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“If I were only sure of that,” she said, speaking less 
steadily than usual. She had not sat down in the chair he 
had placed for her. They were standing side by side, with 
their shoulders toward the other room, and though Mirfield 
was not a short man, their shoulders were on a level. “ If 
I were only sure of that,” she said, and looked very earn- 
estly indeed at him. 

“ Sure?” he cried, under his breath. “ Why, aren’t you 
sure, then? But you must be, you must indeed ! It would 
be the happiest time in my life the moment in which you 
consented to marry me.” 

“Then, Lionel,” she answered, with that full look still 
on him, “ you may count this the happiest time in -your 
life.” 

“My dearest girl!” he murmured. “Is it possible, at 
last!” 

“Hush!” she murmured; “they are making the move 
for dinner.” And even in the first hurry of that moment 
she was conscious of a suspicion that the interruption was 
not unwelcome to him, and asked herself that question 
again, “ Will it he sensible to be happy in this particular 
way?” 

But she soon found that, sensible or not, she was to be 
given no chance of drawing hack. 

Before the ladies had thoroughly settled themselves for 
their quiet half-hour after dinner Milly was fetched out of 
the room, and when she came back she went straight up to 
her sister and put her hands on her shoulders and kissed 
her on both cheeks. 

“I am so glad, Lotte,” she said emotionally, “so very 
glad to think that it came off here after all, though, even 
now, I don’t believe you two absurd creatures would have 
made up your minds if you had not had your phlegm 
broken up by the excitement we’ve been going through. 
Yes, she has consented to make Mirfield a happy man at 
last,” she continued, turning to the questioning face of the 
lady next her ; “ and now that it is a fait accompli I am 
consumed by a desire to shake her for keeping her patient 
adorer so long in suspense.” 

Charlotte felt all this was very hurried. The influences 
of the moment had driven them out of their usual pace. 


IMPULSE V. INSTINCT. 


29 


Although she had outwardly kept her head, she knew that 
she had herself been carried along by that absurd little 
scene before dinner. But there was no backing out now. 
And, after all, perhaps it might turn out for the best. 
Only, she would have felt more contented if she had not 
known in her inmost heart that but for her last night’s ad- 
venture she would not have been to-night the betrothed of 
Lord Mirfield. She did not like feeling that her engage- 
ment had been brought about by the merest accident ; it 
was hurtful to her dignity. 

But if the hurt to her dignity had only stopped there ! 

Although until now people had always wondered why 
Miss Kennett did not marry Lord Mirfield, no sooner was 
the engagement made known than they began to take ex- 
ception to the arrangement. 

It was odd, they said, that a woman of Charlotte Ken- 
nett’s calibre should care for a man of Mirfield’s want of 
character — a dreamer, a visionary, an idler, a purposeless 
person who had inherited his father’s taste for intellectual 
pursuits without the mental strength or vigor to put it to 
as good a use. 

There were those who were vulgar enough to say that the 
prospective countess-ship had had weight in helping Miss 
Kennett’s decision ; but this was only the opinion of those 
who knew nothing of Charlotte personally — people who 
were acquainted with her were hardly likely to make such 
a blunder. 

The day following the engagement it was decided that 
Charlotte should return to Yorkshire at once. In the lit- 
tle local weekly paper there had appeared an over-colored 
account of her night with Mr. Evans on the mountain ; 
there was even a line or two crowded in at the end in 
which reference was made to “ the scene of unprecedented 
enthusiasm which greeted the fearless heroine’s reappear- 
ance among her friends in the evening.” 

“ I had better get out of it all,” Charlotte said; “ I can’t 
stand being made a public character of.” 

So it was settled that she should hurry her departure by 
a few days, and the next morning Mrs. Rees and Lord Mir- 
field drove into Wrexham with her to see her off. 

“ I think it is very cruel of you not to let me see you 


30 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


gafe home,” Mirfield said; but Charlotte would not have 
it so. 

“ I particularly want you to stay behind for a few days, 
to send me regular accounts of Mr. Evans’ progress,” she 
told him. “ Co down yourself, if you can make time, and 
find out how he is getting on. I shall be really anxious, 
and I could not lay my commands on any one else in the 
same way, you know.” 

Of course, when it was put to him that way, further re- 
monstrance was out of the question. And so Mirfield re- 
mained at Coed-y-Bychwn, and his fiancee went on alone 
to impart her news to her father, feeling happier in her 
own mind as she remembered that, however much she 
might doubt the wisdom of her decision, it could produce 
nothing but sincere gratification among the members of 
her family. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE STRONG WILL WINS. 

Lord' Hetley received the news of his son’s betrothal 
with unmixed satisfaction. He was so roused out of him- 
self that for the moment even his absorbing translations 
from the classics lost their interest for him. 

AVhen his secretary — that same Abney Garth who had 
come to The Fallow seven years ago as classical tutor to the 
Mirfield boys — joined him at the usual hour in his study 
he found his employer more disposed for talk than work. 

This Mr. Garth was scarcely an every-day young man. 
Eight years ago, at his father’s death, at which time Abney 
was reading for the bar, he had discovered that the estate 
left to him was barely solvent. The lawyers had suggested 
a compromise with his father’s creditors, but when the 
young man found that, by pinching and screwing, he 
could pay the full twenty shillings in the pound he had de- 
cided to do it. 

Youthful quixotry the lawyers had called it; but it was 
Abney Garth’s last folly of the kind. Perhaps in that one 
big effort he had exhausted his store of that quality; be 


THE STRONG WILL WINS. 


31 


that as it may, nobody ever accused Abney Garth of en- 
thusiasm or romance again. Some people said his disap- 
pointment had soured him, and yet he was not a morose 
man by any means, only grave and self-contained to the 
verge of stoicism. 

As young men his father and Lord Netley had been in 
the same set at Oxford, and when he had found himself sud- 
denly face to face with the hard necessity of earning his 
living he had written to the earl, bespeaking his influence, 
and the earl had been very glad to secure his services on 
his own behalf, for the young man had already shown some 
signs of sound classical scholarship, and for that branch of 
learning Lord Netley had an old-fashioned admiration. 

So at twenty-two Abney Garth had come to Netley Fal- 
low to read the classics with the earl’s sons and Miss Ken- 
nett, and to help the earl himself with his learned labors, 
and there he had remained ever since, an unobtrusive 
but highly esteemed member of the household, who, in the 
midst of other interests, lived a life of his own, apart — a life 
of hard work, of eager hopes and burning ambitions, un- 
suspected and undreamed of by those about him. 

And yet he was not wanting in sympathy, only his very 
sympathy was of that quiet, self-contained kind which 
gains the least credit even while it is the most trusted in. 

This morning, for instance, he saw at once, when Lord 
Netley entered the study, that something had happened to 
disturb the level, studious calm of the last few weeks. 
But, as was usual with him, he waited until his lordship 
chose to speak, and his lordship was too full of elation to 
keep him waiting long. 

Garth received the information of his old pupil’s engage- 
ment exactly as he should have received it, with a certain 
quiet interest in the fact itself, and a touch of congratula- 
tion for his lordship personally on the accomplishment of 
the wish he had so often given expression to. 

“You are right. Garth,” he answered genially. “I am 
quite as much to be congratulated as the young people 
themselves. Thank Heaven that one of my sons has at last 
done a sensible thing! I began to be afraid that Mirfleld 
was going to do no more real good with his life than his 
brother.” 


32 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

Garth received this remark with a discreet silence. 
Arthur Mirlleld’s follies and vices were a by-word every- 
where hut in his father’s presence. If he chose to spend 
his time and his small independent fortune among the ac- 
tors and actresses of the minor theatres — with an occa- 
sional music-hall “ star ” thrown in — nobody had the power 
to prevent him. It was a matter for very great regret, but 
a matter which purposeless discussion could not possibly 
improve. 

“ But I have real hopes for Mirfield now,” Lord ISTetley 
began again, too much and too pleasantly occupied with 
his own anticipations to notice Garth’s unresponsiveness. 
“ With such a woman as Miss Kennett at his elbow he may 
do a lot yet. But they must not lose any more time. Now 
that she has at last made up her mind, there is no need for 
any further delay. Where are we now? In the middle 
of November? Well, there is no reason why the marriage 
should not take place quite early in the new year — quite 
early — so that they may be back in town and take their 
stand from the beginning of the season. I shall drive over 
and see Mr. Kennett, and put the business part of the 
arrangement into training this afternoon,” he continued, 
warming up to ’his subject as he went on, “ and Miss Char- 
lotte must do her share of hurry with the milliners and 
dressmakers too. You shall write to. Gillow’s at once, Ab- 
ney, about overhauling the house in Curzon Street ; they 
had better start immediately. There will he plenty to do, 
and we will have it done thoroughly while we’re about it. 
Perhaps Mirlield will begin to take life seriously now — - 
leave off his dreary scribblings and go in for a dose of hard 
work. This pottering among hooks and papers is all very 
well for a man who has done his fair share of fighting, as 
I have, hut it’s a bad sign to see the young ones taking to 
it. We must get him into the House — at least,” he added, 
with a sudden dash of bitterness in his tone, “ we will try 
to get him there, if there is still a seat left unappropriated 
by the fraternity of buttermen and cobblers, and meantime 
Charlotte can start her campaign in Curzon Street from 
the opening of the session. That is one advantage we still 
have over the butter people, Abney— our womenkind. As 
Lady Mirfield Miss Kennett will make a mark; I should 


THE STRONG WILL WINS. 


33 


not wonder if the house in Curzon Street recovered some 
of the reputation it enjoyed under the Derby administra- 
tion. It was one of the acknowedged rallying-grounds of 
the party in those days, Ahney; it would he the greatest 
pleasure left to me to see it restored to that position.” 

It was curious, and a little pitiful, to see how the old 
fighting instinct came atop at tfo first faint possibility of 
a return to the arena. Garth noticed it without being 
able to comprehend it. In his estimation latter-day poli- 
tics meant, as a pursuit, everything that was mean and 
vulgar and dreary, to all but the leaders themselves. The 
real old party spirit seemed altogether a thing of the past, 
and any attempt to revive it appeared to him to he pretty 
much on a level with the operation of thrashing a dead 
donkey. 

With the more personal part of the business, however, 
he felt a warm interest, and when Lord Netley returned 
presently to the question of refurnishing, and began to 
dictate a letter to the upholsterers, he ventured upon a 
quiet remonstrance. 

“ Do you think it would perhaps be better to wait until 
you have seen Miss Kennett before you send Gillow his in- 
structions?” he asked. 

“ No, I do not,” the old man answered decisively. “ We 
have done waiting enough. Miss Kennett has definitely ac- 
cepted Mirfield, and she has known him ever since childhood. 
She cannot possibly want more time for consideration.” - 

Garth drew the paper toward him and dipped his pen in 
the ink. 

“ Of course I am wholly inexperienced in these matters,” 
he said, with a slight unreadable smile which left one won- 
dering whether he considered his inexperience a matter for 
congratulation or regret ; “ but I had an impression that 
the lady was always consulted on the question of date.” 

“And so she shall be,” returned the earl, showing a 
touch of petulance ; “ she shall choose her own day of the 
week, and the week itself, so long as she does not defer it 
beyond the end of February — what more can she want? 
Confound your superior judgment, Abney Garth!” he ex- 
claimed in sudden good-natured impatience, when the 
other made no reply. “ I wish you would drop that habit 
3 


84 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


of always putting the other party in the wrong and leav- 
ing them there. But we can’t really do any harm by writ- 
ing to Gillow for his estimate, you know, and I should like 
to feel we had made a start.” 

Garth said nothing more. When his lordship had made 
up his mind opposition only confirmed him in it. 

The letter to Gillow was posted that night. 

And that day three months the engagement stood just 
as it had stood at the beginning. 

Christmas had come and gone, Miss Kennett had been 
at home, quietly busy among her father’s people, and be- 
yond that first brief announcement to his father Mirfield 
had made no sign. 

Most of the time they had hardly known where he was, 
his letters having been sent to his London club and for- 
warded on thence. 

Lord Netley was furious, Mr. Kennett icily indignant, 
and yet they could neither of them do anything, because 
Charlotte insisted that Mirfield should not be interfered 
with. 

“ This is my affair,” she said to the two angry old men. 
“ If I don’t complain, nobody else has any right to. Mir- 
field and I understand one another thoroughly, and if any- 
body else attempts to interfere between us I will put an 
end to the engagement at once.” 

After this decided declaration it seemed that there was 
nothing more to be said upon the subject ; and things went 
on week after week without change, until February was 
well in. 

And then something happened which pricked the bubble 
of Lord Netley’s brooding anger, and caused an explosion 
which successfully bore down all opposition whatsoever. 

Arthur Mirfield, the reprobate, capped his two years’ folly 
by a marriage with some unfortunate young woman who 
earned her living at one of the “ over-the- water ” theatres 
in London. And, as if this were not bad enough, he at- 
tained the comUe of his foolhardiness by sending a copy 
of The Morning Post to his father, with the announce- 
ment of the marriage underlined in red ink. 

“ On the 3d inst. , Arthur Mirfield, second son of the 


THE STRONG WILL WINS. 


35 


Earl of Netley, to Molly de Oourcy, formerly of the Camel 
and Howdar Theatre. No cards.” 

The old man’s rage was something awfnl to witness. 
Even Abney Garth was terrified when he entered his 
lordship’s bedroom, in compliance with the entreaty of the 
alarmed valet, and found him walking about in his dressing- 
gown and slippers, with the fragments of the paper in his 
shaking hand, unable to speak coherently, scarcely con- 
scious in his consuming anger of anything but his own im- 
potent frenzy. 

Garth’s first fear was paralysis; but the crisis passed, and 
left the enraged man still in command of his senses. 

The first burst of rage past, his more enduring anger, 
unreasonably enough, fixed itself on his eldest son. In 
some inconsequent fashion he jumped to the conclusion 
that, because his second son had disgraced himself over his 
matrimonial affairs, his eldest son was likely to repeat the 
fiasco. 

As soon as his hand was steady enough to hold the pen, 
he composed and despatched a telegram to Mirfield, com- 
manding his immediate return home, at all costs and un- 
der any and every circumstance, unless he wished to be 
denied his father’s presence as long as he lived. 

This message happened to catch Lord Mirfield in town, 
and he wired back directly that he would be with his 
father that night. 

On receipt of this Lord Netley at once drove over to 
Kennett’s Wold, and persuaded Charlotte to accompany 
him back to The Fallow for a few days’ stay, to “ comfort 
him in the trouble that had fallen upon him.” 

This she did in all good faith, unaware of her lover’s ex- 
pected arrival. 

At nine o’clock, when Charlotte was safely in the draw- 
ing-room, beyond the sound of his arrival, Mirfield came, 
and was taken at once to the earl in the study. 

Without beating about the bush at all, without even 
wasting time over a word of the most ordinary greeting. 
Lord Netley went straight to his point. 

“ Well, you’ve heard of your brother’s social suicide, I 
suppose? Married a ballet girl, or some lady from the 


3G A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

same dainty class. I sent for you because it seemed to me 
there was every chance of your coming to the same kind of 
thing if somebody did not put out a hand to bring you 
back to your proper place. We will have no more of this 
blackguardism in the family, if you please. You will 
marry Charlotte Kennett this day week. For God’s sake 
let us have one respectable woman in the family!” 

The news of his brother’s marriage had a most extraor- 
dinary eifect upon Mirfield, or perhaps it was the com- 
mand to get married at once which overwhelmed him. He 
went the color of death, lips and all, and put his hand on 
the back of a chair near him as if he felt the need of some 
support. 

“It is all a mistake,” he said, speaking as if he were 
short of breath. “ AVhere did you get your information? 
Somebody has been lying, as usual.” 

“There is no mistake at all,” answered his father. 
“ The paper containing the announcement was sent to me 
this morning, addressed in your brother’s handwriting. 
She was a Miss de Montmorency, or some elegant name of 
the sort, and she came from one of the Tom and Jerry 
theatres across the water. They took the trouble to an-' 
nounce the whole honorable genealogy in the paper. We 
won’t waste any further words on them, if you please. I 
sent for you to arrange the date of your own wedding, not 
to discuss theirs. What with your cousin George’s scoun- 
drelism, and with a butcher’s daughter” — this was his hab- 
itual way of describing his brother’s widow, whose father 
had been an army meat contractor — “and a ballet girl 
^already in the family, it is time we made an effort to save 
ourselves from social annihilation. Your marriage with 
Miss Kennett will take place without any further delay. 
What do you say to this day week?” 

“It is impossible,” said Mirfield, “utterly impossible. 
You must give me more time.” 

He was still holding on to the chair-back, and breathing 
as if he had been running a race, and though he spoke 
with unmistakable emphasis he made no attempt to meet 
his father’s eye. 

Lord Netley looked across at his down-bent face for ’a 
second or two in silence. What he saw, or thought he 


THE STRONG WILL WINS. 


37 


saw, in his son’s attitude Heaven alone knows, but what- 
ever it was, it swept away his last shred of self-command, 
and there followed a scene which made Abney Garth, with- 
out personal interest as he seemed in the matter, draw his 
breath quickly in dread of what might happen next. 

The old man’s speech was not loud, it was scarcely more 
rapid than usual. His anger was too intense for bluster; 
it was at a still, white glow — a heat ten times as intense as 
that from flickering flames. 

Even Garth shivered once or twice as he listened to the 
bitter, biting words, and but for his lifelong policy of non- 
interference he would have yielded to the impulse of the 
moment and thrown himself between the infuriated old 
man and his pallid-fa-ced listener. 

Between two such temperaments such a scene could only 
end one way — in the submission of the weaker.^ Mirfleld’s 
opposition melted like wax before the heat of his father’s 
passion. 

“ It is enough, sir," he said, when at last he had a chance 
to speak; “more than enough. I leave myself in your 
hands — in yours and Charlotte’s, that is," he added, as if 
the remembrance of Miss Kennett brought him some frag- 
ment of hope at the last moment. 

But Lord Netley was ruthless in his hour of victory. 

“ Then," he returned instantly, “we will settle the mat- 
ter out of hand at once. No, don’t sit down," for Mirfleld 
had turned the chair toward him and seated himself with 
an air of exhaustion. “ There is nothing like striking 
while the iron is hot. Charlotte is in the drawing-room. 
We will go and get her to flx the day this instant, and 
go to bed afterward with a good conscience." 

Garth, watching the two of them leave the room, saw 
Mirfleld spread his hands out with a quick, spasmodic ges- 
ture, as if something in his father’s words had probed him 
to the quick, and the action left a curiously vivid impres- 
sion on his mind, its resignation was so nearly akin to 
despair. 

Lord Netley had his own way in the drawing-room as he 
had had it in the library, only it was signiflcant of the old 
diplomatist’s wiliness that in this second interview he alto- 
gether altered his tactics. 


38 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


"VYitli Miss Kennett he threw himself on her mercy, bore 
heavily on the blow he had already sustained that day, and 
appealed to her goodness of heart by declaring that she had 
it in her power to greatly lessen the shock. 

Once again, under the impulse of the moment, Charlotte 
Kennett yielded against her better judgment, and allowed 
that day three weeks to be fixed for the wedding. 

And that day three weeks the wedding took place, after 
a breathless period of insufficient preparation, of lawyers’ 
interviews, of hurried journeys to town, of striving, push- 
ing, driving bustle, which left nobody a chance for an 
hour of quiet thought until it was over and done with and 
the proverbially happy pair were safely ofi on their short 
honeymoon. 

Then at last Lord Netley knew a moment’s peace. He 
dismounted guard, as it were, and with a sigh of satisfac- 
tion tossed aside his lilies of the valley and his light kid 
gloves and went directly back to his study and his classical 
translations. 

“ Thank God, that is over!” he said, fingering a pile of 
manuscript with caressing touches, as if he felt he owed it 
compensation for the neglect of the past weeks. “ Now at 
last I feel safe! Every since the day was fixed I have been 
haunted by a foreboding that something would happen to 
interfere with the marriage after all, and 1 had set my 
heart on having one respectable woman in the family. 
Now then, Abney, how far shall we go back to pick up the 
thread again?” 

The secretary came forward in his tranquil fashion and 
took his usual place at the table. He was looking paler 
than he had looked three weeks ago, and there was a touch 
of haggardness under his eyes, and a strained look in the 
eyes themselves which suggested a long succession of sleep- 
less nights. Perhaps these weeks of unusual bustle had 
thrown his nerves out of order. 

“Thank God it is over!” said his lordship again, and 
Garth may have repeated the phrase to himself even more 
fervently, and with greater cause. 

“Yes; thank God it is over!” 


THE STORY BEGINS. 


39 


CHAPTEE ly. 

THE STORY BEGINS. 

It was nearly two years and a half since Lord Netleyhad 
congratulated himself so unreservedly on his son’s marriage 
with Miss Kennett, and though his anticipations of a re- 
turn of political power to the house of Mirfield had not 
been fulfilled, in all other respects he saw no reason but 
one to be dissatisfied with the alliance. And this one rea- 
son was likely to be rectified in time. At present there 
was no direct male heir to the title; the only child of the 
marriage was a girl — Baby Daisy — now about eighteen 
months old. 

To Lord Netley, living the life of his choice among his 
books and papers, it seemed that the marriage had turned 
out everything one could wish, always with the reservation 
concerning Mirfield’s political career; hut then, absorbed 
as he was in his literary occupations. Lord Netley saw less 
of what was going on round him than most people, and 
there were those, even in The Fallow household itself, who 
read between the lines of Charlotte’s married life and 
recognized the fact that all was not quite as it should he 
between her husband and her. 

Outwardly those two years and a half had had very little 
effect upon Lady Mirfield. Her laugh, perhaps, did not 
come quite so readily as of old, and the set of the lips may 
have been a trifle closer, the smile a touch less flexible than 
before her marriage; but these are changes that come to 
most people sooner or later, and they were so slight that of 
themselves they would scarcely have created notice. 

To people of an observant nature, however, there were 
other signs and tokens, which told their own tale unmis- 
takably enough. Lord Mirfield had not grown domesti- 
cated after his marriage, as men of histypeusually do when 
they are fortunate enough to mate with women who adore 
them. Before his honeymoon was well over he had shown 
an impatience and a distaste for home life, which had 
aroused Abney Garth’s secret indignation and set Mrs. 


40 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


George Mirfield openly wondering. This, however, Char- 
lotte soon put an end to in her direct, outspoken way, and 
in the presence of Mirfield ’s wife Mrs. George had to check 
her uncharitable surmises on the subject of Mirfield’s con- 
stant absences from home. 

At the beginning it had been his literary occupations 
whiph had called him up to town every now and then, but 
later on he had discovered a sudden and rabid taste for 
yachting— Charlotte was the worst sailor in the world — and 
had started a yacht of his own. Henceforth he spent a 
good half of his time afioat, and sometimes for a fortnight 
at a stretch his wife would not have known how to com- 
municate with him in the event of any sudden emergency. 

Things were in this condition at the end of the third 
July since their marriage. Lady Mirfield had left town 
for Netley Fallow before the end of the season because Baby 
Daisy had seemed to he pining in the hot London streets. 
Mirfield had, as usual, remained behind, and it was now 
ten days since Charlotte had known anything definite of 
her husband’s whereabouts. She had never unclosed her 
lips on the subject, but Garth knew well enough why she 
was down-stairs morning after morning in time to receive 
the post-bag herself from the hands of the messenger, and 
though he was always especially careful to he out of the 
way on these occasions he knew quite well by the tone of 
her “ Good morning” what luck she had had in her daily 
dip into the lucky bag. 

That remarkable self-control of his stood him in good 
stead during this part of his life; the faintest touch of 
significance in word or look, the slightest suggestion of 
sympathy on his part, and there would have been an end of 
the strong friendship between these two. But the sugges- 
tion was never made, and the friendship remained un- 
broken, and Lady Mirfield turned instinctively to Garth 
whenever she found herself in any difficulty which could, 
in the fitness of things, be shared with another. 

That she was in some such difficulty now he guessed at 
once as he caught sight of her hurrying up the bridle-path 
which led directly from the village to the house. 

He had seen her leave the house by that path a quarter 
of an hour ago, and knew as well as if she had told him 


THE STORY BEGINS. 


41 


that she was too impatient to wait the postman’s appear- 
ance at the door, and had ‘gone to meet him. And if the 
whole truth must be told, Garth had taken up his post by 
the open window of the breakfast -room purposely to watch 
for her return, for in these days of her suspense and anx- 
iety, in seeing her suffer he went through almost as much 
as she did, and was always glad for her sake when the 
morning’s fever of expectation was over. 

This morning, however, he saw instantly that something 
out of the common had occurred, and waited with an im- 
patience which was not allowed to betray itself by so much 
as the tightening of a muscle until she should come and 
impart her information. 

Nevertheless, when he turned at the sound of her foot- 
step outside the door, and saw her in the open doorway, 
with a heavily- bordered letter in her hand, his sternly 
schooled heart gave such a leap within him that he paused 
affrighted at its obvious meaning. Had things come to 
this pass with him, that he rejoiced at the prospect of a 
fellow-creature’s death? 

The next moment he knew his iniquitous hope was with- 
out foundation. 

“ Abney,” said Lady Mirfield, coming hastily forward, 
with the letter held oat toward him, “do you know any- 
thing at all of Arthur’s whereabouts? This letter has the 
Eouen postmark, and another which looks like Leuville. 
Isn’t Leuville on the Normandy coast? And did Mrs. Wat- 
son say something about having come across Arthur, and 
his wife and baby boy, at some out-of-the-way little fishing 
village in Normandy last summer? I am dreadfully afraid 
something terrible has happened. Arthur would not have 
allowed his father to be written to while he was alive. 
And see how it is addressed, too — “ To the Honorable Lord 
de Netley ” — a French address evidently. What shall we 
do?” 

“We can do nothing. Lady Mirfield,” he answered. 
“ Lord Netley would resent the slightest interference with 
his correspondence. We must send the letter up with the 
others, and let things take their course.” 

“ Must we really? It seems cruel to let a blow fall like 
that ; and it will be a blow. He has spoken once or twice 


42 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


lately of the misery of family estrangements, and, of course, 
I knew what he meant. Don’t you think for once you 
might venture to intrude on the seclusion of his breakfast 
hour and prepare him a little?” 

At the suggestion there flashed before his mind the 
memory of the only other time he had ever seen the Earl 
of Netley in deshaMlle — the morning he had received the 
news of his younger son’s marriage. Garth remembered 
that, even in the midst of the excitement and emotion of 
that day, his employer had found time to ask him what 
had brought him into his bedroom; and though no further 
allusion had been made to the matter, the tone of the 
inquiry had been quite enough to prevent a repetition of 
the offence. 

“ There is nothing he dislikes so much, you see,” he an- 
swered. “ If I thought it would do the least good, I would 
go willingly enough ; but it would only increase his agita- 
tion to have his regular habits upset. And another thing, 
if this letter is what we fear, and if he is likely to show 
any emotion, he would rather get that over in seclusion, I 
am sure.” 

Lady Mirfield yielded the point, and sent the letters out 
to Lord Netley’s man, who was waiting for them in the 
hall. 

“Mirfield is coasting round Cornwall,” she went on by 
and by. “ He has been weather-bound in the Scillies for 
the last day or two. He asks for all letters to be sent on 
to the Plymouth post-office. He hopes to be there by to- 
night.” 

Garth made some slight observation to show that he was 
heeding, and she went on at once to the other topic. 

“ If this news from Leuville should be what we fear, 
there are bound to be changes here. Mrs. Mirfield could 
not be left to drift about the world alone. And the boy, 
too. There is the boy, Abney.” 

“Yes,” said Abney, with quiet comprehension, “there 
is the boy. That would certainly make a difference.” 

“All the difference in the world,” she returned mean- 
ingly. “ Lord Netley will forgive Arthur’s widow every- 
thing, only because she is the mother of his baby son. 
They are bound to come here, Abney. Lord Netley would 


THE STORY BEGINS. 


43 


not allow his heir to go wandering about the world with no 
better guardian than an illiterate woman like his mother. 
Poor Baby Daisy, her reign is over!” 

“I should not meet troubles half-way,” Garth said. 

“ A thousand things may happen to prevent Mrs. Arthur 
Mirfield’s residence here. And as for Daisy’s reign, that 
was not likely to be a long one under any circumstances.” 

Lady Mirfield made no answer at the moment; and with- 
out being able to explain to himself why, Garth was yet 
conscious that his remark had in some vague manner dis- 
turbed her. 

“ I wonder what she is really like?” It was evident 
that she could not get her thoughts away from that mourn- 
ing-edged letter and its probable consequences. “ I sup- 
pose it is no use asking you, Abney? You won’t know 
anything more about her than I do.” 

“No; I know nothing of her myself,” said Abney; “hut 
when George Mirfield was staying with his mother, last 
Christmas, he told me that he had met Arthur as he came 
through Paris on his way home, and that he was buying 
presents for his wife and the little boy. I don’t remember 
much of what George said, but I got an idea somehow 
that Arthur was quite a devoted husband and father. You 
know George’s reckless style. He said that Arthur seemed 
to have done uncommonly well for himself in marrying to 
please his own tastes instead of his father’s.” 

Lady Mirfield flushed slightly, and Garth saw it, and 
called himself a thick-headed fool. 

“ Then, at any rate, there must be something lovable 
about her,” she said. “We must take what comfort we 
can from that.” 

An hour later, when Garth joined Lord Netley in the 
study, he found him in his usual place, dressed with as 
much scrupulous care as ever, but looking, in spite of his 
perfect toilet and stately calm, as if he had lived through 
ten years of trouble since he had retired to his room last 
night. 

“ I suppose Lady Mirfield showed you the letter I sent 
down to her?” he began, lifting a long white hand to check > 
Garth as he started to arrange the morning’s work on the 
table before him. 


44 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“She told me the news it contained, sir,” Garth cor- 
rected. “ It is a terrible thing. ” 

“ It is a very terrible thing, Abney — more terrible for me, 
perhaps, than any one. It is an awful thing to feel you 
have a feud with the dead. However, it is past, beyond all 
recall as far as my son is himself concerned; but I will 
make what compensation I can to those who are left. Hid 
I hear some allusion to a family — a — a — boy, or is it only 
my fancy?” 

It touched Garth to see his suppressed eagerness on this 
point. It was his greatest terror that the succession should 
fall to his reprobate nephew George, who had disgraced 
himself more irredeemably a thousand times than Arthur 
had done by his low marriage. 

“Yes; there is a boy,” he answered at once. “A par- 
ticularly fine baby, Mrs. Watson said he was, when she met 
them at Leuville last summer.” 

“Ah!” There was no disguising the keen satisfaction 
of the tone. “ Well, they must come here, of course, 
Abney.” 

“Yes; I thought you would decide to have them here, • 
sir.” 

“ Yes, of course. Understand me, Abney Garth, under 
any circumstances, no matter how undesirable she may be, 

I would have made the offer to Arthur’s widow — even if 
she had been childless. Don’t think me more selfish than 
I am. But the boy makes it imperative that they should 
come here. She — that poor girl won’t like it, after the es- 
trangement between my son and me — she will think that, 
in showing resentment to me now, she is standing up for 
her dead husband. I know that type so well. It will be 
a difficult business to persuade her to come. Will you 
undertake the mission for me, Abney? Will you go to 
this place and fetch my grandson and his mother home?” 

The suggestion startled Abney Garth. It startled him 
to an extraordinary degree, though why it should was 
scarcely comprehensible. If he had given a thought to 
the matter, he would have decided that, barring Mirfield 
himself, he, Abnej Garth, from the very peculiarity of his 
position in the household — holding the post of confidential 
friend to each member of the family in turn — was the very 


THE STORY BEGINS. 


45 


person to be selected for this delicate mission of reconcilia- 
tion between the austere head of the family and the nat- 
ural guardian of the heir. But he had not given a thought 
to it ; and the suggestion, coming upon him suddenly, not 
only surprised him — it displeased him also. And just as 
his surprise was really groundless, so had he no tangible 
reason for his displeasure. And yet, there it was — a very 
pronounced and assertive repugnance for this mission 
which his employer was proposing to him — a repugnance 
which would thrust itself into his thoughts, and make it- 
self felt, in defiance of all the common-sense arguments 
with which he sought to overcome it. 

And let the hard-headed dealers in facts, and nothing 
but facts, hammer away as hard as they like with their ar- 
guments that nothing is to be depended upon that cannot 
be proved by the evidence of one or another of the physi- 
cal senses. In spite of all their cold-blooded casuistry 
there remains no more positive fact in life than this fact, 
that impulses, apparently meaningless in themselves, have 
often more meaning in the long run than all the full-bodied 
arguments upon facts put together. The pity of it is that 
nowadays men and women — and men in particular — are so 
given to laugh at this gift of in^inct. 

It was so with Abney Garth now. With all the more 
delicate part of his perception urging him not to undertake 
this mission in search of Lord Netley’s heir, he yielded, 
after the faintest pause, to his employer’s request, and 
asked himself, with a touch of self-contempt, what was 
coming to him that he should be victimized by such wom- 
anish forebodings and follies. 

The main point once settled, the rest of the interview 
was devoted to business arrangements. 

“The funeral is to-day,” said Lord Netley; “so that it 
is impossible you should be present at that. While you 
are there you will arrange for a suitable headstone to^ be 
erected as soon as possible. But don’t waste more time 
than you can help; I shall be lost without you. By-the- 
bye, if Mirfield is in town, and he can be persuaded to 
leave his suckling scribblers ” — this was one of his lord- 
ship’s hallucinations, that it was the pursuit of literature 
which kept his son away from home so constantly — “ you 


46 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


might ask him to go across with you. It would be only 
civil of him.” 

“ Shall I write you how I get on?” 

“ No ; don’t waste time for that. Do what there is to do 
as quickly as possible, and get back home as soon as you can. ” 

Garth caught the one o’clock train up from York, which 
would enable him to cross to Calais by that night’s boat. 
But in the midst of his hurry he contrived a few last words 
with Lady Mirfield. 

“They are coming here at once,” he told her. “They 
will most likely be here by the evening of the day after to- 
morrow, that is, if I can persuade Mrs. Arthur to hurry 
up her packing. Poor soul! Perhaps a little hurry will 
be the best thing for her under the circumstances — leave 
her less time to grieve.” 

“Say everything that is kind to her for me,” she an- 
swered. “ Tell her I am longing to have her here to com- 
fort her,” and then she echoed Lord Netley’s entreaty to 
him not to be longer than he could help. “ The place will 
seem a howling wilderness without you these long hot even- 
ings. Let our need of you hurry your return, Abney.” 

His heart ached a little as he recalled the words on his 
journey. If everybody did their duty she would not have 
felt the need of his presence, he told himself drearily. 

On his way through London he sent a wire to Mirfield, 
to the Plymouth post-office, telling him of his brother’s 
death, and saying when he expected to be back in London 
with Mrs. Arthur Mirfield, and that a message or letter 
would reach him on his return at Long’s hotel. 

He was away from London two whole days. He got back 
latish on Thursday evening, and found, as he had expected 
to find, a letter from Mirfield awaiting him. 

They had had a rough crossing from Calais, and poor 
little Mrs. Mirfield was so prostrated by all she had gone i 
through that Garth slipped the letter unopened into his 
pocket, and attended first of all to his fellow-traveller’s 
comfort. 

This matter disposed of, he turned back alone to the 
cofiee-room to read his letter, and was stopped on his way 
across the hall by hearing somebody inquiring for him of 
the hall porter. 


THE STORY BEGINS. 


47 


“My name is Garth,” he said, stepping forward; “is it 
me you are asking for?” 

“ I suppose it is, sir,” answered the inquirer, a messenger 
with Great Western Hotel on the band of his peaked cap. 
“Do you know anybody of the name of Mirfield? Lord 
Mirfield, I think it is, only there is such a confusion ” 

“Yes, yes; I know Lord Mirfield intimately. Have you 
a message for me from him?” 

“Yes, sir. He’s hurt badly, I think, and I’ve been 
sent for you. There’s been a collision between an express 
and a heavy coal train, and ” 

“Where is he?” interrupted Garth again, looking round 
instinctively for his hat. “ Take me to him.” 

He paused at the door to leave a message for Mrs. Arthur, 
in case he might be detained beyond the hour they had ar- 
ranged for their start in the morning. 

“Tell Mrs. Mirfield to await my return here in any case,” 
he said, and ran down the steps and jumped into the wait- 
ing hansom. 

As he sat quietly there in forced inaction he had time 
for thought, and in that pause there came to him, with a 
sudden shock, the knowledge that this catastrophe was 
what he had been expecting ever since Lord Netley had 
asked him to go to Leuville in search of Arthur’s wife and 
child. He had felt from the first that the mission was, in 
some unforeseen way, to be associated with misfortune, 
and here was indeed a realization of his foreboding. If 
anything should happen to Mirfield, what a return to Net- 
ley his would be ! Two sons dead within a week — what a 
shock for that iron-willed old man at The Hallow! 

As the cab dashed up to the door of the Great Western 
the manager came hurrying forward with a grave face. 

“You are Mr. Garth?” he said. “Thank Heaven you 
are come! Lord Mirfield has been asking for you inces- 
santly.” 

“How is he?” Garth asked. “Be candid, please, and 
tell me the whole truth. There is Lady Mirfield to be con- 
sidered. In case of the worst she must be sent for.” 

“ Here comes one of the doctors ; he will tell you better 
than I can. This is Mr. Garth, the gentleman Lord Mir- 
field has been so anxious to see, doctor.” 


48 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Garth turned to face the man descending the staircase 
behind him, and knew the worst at once. The quiet, short 
gaze of keen inquiry was mutual. The medical man 
looked him over, and took his measure in a glance. 

“ I will take you to him,” he said. “ There is no need 
to preach self-control to you, I can see. It is only a ques- 
tion of hours with the poor fellow, but it is as well they 
should be as peaceful as possible.’'* 

“You may count on me not to disturb them,” Garth 
answered, and followed him up the stairs, forgetting, in 
the feeling of the moment, that the telegram had not been 
sent to Lady Mirfield after all. Afterward he came to re- 
gard this oversight as something little short of providential. 

Mirfield saw and knew him the moment he entered the 
room, and put out a clammy hand with feeble eagerness. 

“I’ve been counting the minutes to your coming,” he 
said ; “ my fear was that you might not have crossed this 
afternoon, and I have been reckoning on you ever since I 
knew the truth. I only got your wire about poor Arthur 
last night ; it v/as that that fetched me up. I thought I 
might be able to do a good turn for his wife with my 
father.” 

“ Make yourself content about that, my dear lad,” Garth 
answered gently. “ Your father receives her at Netley ; 
she is to make her future home there if she will.” 

Mirfield smiled with a touch of mournful sarcasm. 

“It is the old story,” he said; “when it is too late he 
relents. But the poor little woman will reap the benefit, 
and I’m glad of that, very glad. I wonder will the old 
man be as lenient to me when I am gone. And mind you, 
Abney,” he added, with a sudden touch of energy, “I 
shall need his leniency far more than Arthur did, old 
man.” His glance went wandering round the room to 
where the two doctors and one of the hotel chambermaids 
stood whispering apart. “Send them all away,” he said. 
“ They can do no good. I have heaps to tell you, Abney, 
and no time to lose. Even now I don’t think I could 
screw up my courage to make a clean breast of it if I wasn’t 
sure it was all up with me, for, blackguards as we’ve all 
been, I’ve been the biggest blackguard of the lot. The 
greatest wrong a man can put on an innocent woman I’ve 


THE STORY BEGINS. 


49 


put; it was bei-ig forced into marrying Charlotte that tied 
my hands — but for that I’d have righted her. I look to 
you, old fellow, to see that the wrong doesn’t bear more 
heavily than is possible on her after my death.” 

Garth pressed the fingers that kept on fluttering near his 
hands in a pleading way, which was a prayer in itself, and 
looked back steadily into the strained, pain-stricken eyes 
fixed so eagerly on his face. 

“ Your wishes shall be sacred with me,” he said quietly. 
“ I will do the utmost that lies in my power to carry them 
out.” 

“ I knew that,” said Mirfield; “we’ve all of us got into 
the habit of turning to you in our troubles, and you’ve 
never failed us yet, Abney, never once. You’re not likely 
to begin now. I’ve sent for — her, Abney, but she won’t 
be here in time. You will have to comfort her as best you 
can after I’m gone. Clear the room, old man, and let me 
make my confession while I’ve the breath to do it.” 

During the next few hours Abney Garth’s habitual self- 
command was put to perhaps the strongest test it had 
known, but once more training triumphed over impulse. 
When he at last stood outside his dead friend’s door, 
shaken as he was by all he had heard, he was yet thankful 
to remember that by no word nor sign of impatience had 
he disturbed the last moments of the dying man. 

But now that the strain was over, now that there was no 
longer any need for restraint, he began to realize what 
those hours of forced self-control had cost him. 

For a moment or two, as he stood there in the hotel cor- 
ridor, in the clear light of the summer dawn, hearing with- 
out heeding the hushed movements of the women who 
were already busy inside the room behind him, his limbs 
grew unsteady under him and his eyesight dim; the world 
seemed to be falling away from him, leaving him high and 
dry, an aimless atom floating and drifting helplessly in the 
world of space. 

One of the women, coming out of the room with stealthy 
footfall, as if she feared to waken the dead man inside, 
stopped a moment and looked at him pityingly. 

“Are you feeling bad, sir?” she asked. “Is there any- 
thing I can get you?” 

4 


50 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

But he did not seem to hear her, or at any rate to un- 
derstand. He sood there white and rigid, staring blankly 
into the woman’s face; and she. scared as well as pitiful, 
began to cry a little. 

This called him to himself. 

“ What is the matter?” he asked, rousing himself with a 
wrench. “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry. I am all 
right, thank you.” 

And he went off, unsteadily, down the corridor and pre- 
pared a telegram for the Vicar of Cramlingford, asking 
him to break the sad news to the people at The Fallow. 

When the whimpering chambermaid had watched his 
uncertain progress down the corridor she went back to her 
companions inside the room, and related the little incident 
with cautiously lowered voice. 

“ His friend seems to be taking his death to heart terri- 
ble bad,” she said, with a glance at the still form on the 
bed. “ I thought he was going to faint, outside there, just 
now. And he’s no relation neither, as far as I could hear.” 

“No, he’s no relation,” said another; “but he’s been 
alone with him ever since ten o’clock last night. We was 
all turned out of the room, and I heard Lord Mirfield say 
something about a confession. Perhaps he’d got some- 
thing awful to confess, and that’s what upset the other one 
so much. Who can tell? I dare say, if the truth was 
known, these swell aristocrats have got as much, and more 
too, on their minds when it comes to the end as any of the 
rest of us.” 

An opinion in which the others concurred with carefully 
suppressed heartiness, almost as if they thought the dead 
man might hear and resent the treason against his class. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE OEE CHANCE. 

It was July, and George Mirfield was still in Paris. To 
the initiated the bare statement means one of two things — 
a rigid adherence to a singularly unfortunate duty, or an 
insufficiently filled purse. 


THE OFF CHANCE. 


51 


As George Mirfield had never allowed an adherence to 
duty to stand in the way of his inclinations since he had 
been out of leading-strings, it follows, as a natural conse- 
quence, that his extended stay in Paris must have been 
due to the other and even more unyielding cause, absence 
of the means to take him elsewhere. 

Luck had been all against him lately. At the end of 
April he had come back from Monte Carlo with his pockets 
full, but change of air had also produced a change in his 
run of good fortune. At the Parisian cercles luck had* gone 
steadily against him, until, now that the broiling midsum- 
mer heat was turning the Paris pavements into a very good 
imitation of the Inferno, according to the Evangelists, he 
found himself stranded there without any prospect of get- 
ting out. 

In these ghastly circumstances there was only one shred 
of comfort left to him — that there were still some few con- 
genial companions left to share in his misfortune. 

There was his downstairs neighbor, Madame Koek-koek, 
whose duties at The Eden would keep her a prisoner in the 
broiling, blistering streets until the month was fairly out. 
Neither was pretty, audacious little Germaine Eauvelle 
likely to get leave of absence from her proprietors while 
her last song continued to create a nightly uproar at the 
especial home of musical art which claimed her services. 

But even under such mitigating circumstances as these 
George Mirfield found Paris anything but a happy huntiifg- 
ground during those breathless weeks at the end of July. 
He would have written to his mother for a small advance — 
for be was in very truth the profligate his uncle had de- 
clared him to be ; he had squandered every sou of the com- 
fortable fortune left him by his father, and was now de- 
pendent on his mother, who made him a sufficiently good 
yearly allowance. And it was this fact which kept him 
from writing to her now. Not three weeks ago she had 
placed the usual quarterly instalment of a hundred and 
fifty pounds to his credit at the Lyonnaise, and, hardened 
reprobate as he was, he yet had some touch of conscience 
where his mother was concerned. If he applied to her so 
soon again for money she would guess he was at the cards 
again, and would begin worrying about him. So he 


52 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


endured the Parisian heat, and waited for the luck to 
turn. 

And on the last Friday in the month he got what he was 
waiting for. 

Old Barnstaple had netted two plump pigeons— business 
men who were returning home after a five years’ exile in 
India, and had paused at Paris on their way for a stolen 
sip at the delights of civilization before passing on to the 
bosoms of their respectable families. 

Major Barnstaple had picked them up at the place where 
little Fauvelle sang, and had arranged a pleasant little 
supper expressly to give them the opportunity of meeting 
that alluring songstress. 

“ We are to sup at Koek-koek’s place,” Barnstaple told 
George, when he met him by chance during his afternoon 
saunter under the trees in the half-deserted Champs Elysees, 
“ and there is sure to be a little play after supper. You 
may as well come down from your perch au cinquieme and 
take your share of what’s going. The Koek is always glad 
to have you, and the game wifi be worth the candle. These 
fellows are like two boys let out from school ; they’re mad 
to enjoy themselves, and they aren’t dead set on getting 
their enjoyment cheap.” 

Which was -just as well, George thought to himself 
grimly, seeing into whose hands they had fallen. Barn- 
staple’s forte was not economy, especially when somebody 
else was paying the damage. 

Certainly economy was not the key-note of the composi- 
tion to-night, as George discovered in his first glance at the 
wine labels on the table when he entered Mme. Koek-koek’s 
little salle-a-manger and found the party already seated. 

Nevertheless, in spite of the liquor being above reproach, 
George drank cautiously. He knew his own weakness, knew 
that if he took one step beyond the boundary line of strict 
temperance the old plunging fever would seize on him 
again ; that, for the sake of the temporary excitement, he 
would ramp as heedlessly and recklessly as he had done in 
the maddest of all the mad days of his plenty. 

Mme. Koek-koek noticed his cautious coquetting with 
the sparkling wines, and understood all about it without 
putting a question. 


THE OFF CHANCE. 


53 


She leaned across the corner of the table — by and by as 
often as George Mirfield chose to sit at her table the place 
on her right was reserved for him — and began to talk to 
him quietly, under cover of the gay chatter of the others. 

“ So to-night is to be a night of compensation,” she said, 
*' a night of recompense for some of those others, eh? I 
heard from our dear Barnstaple of your bad fortune last 
week. Partly your own fault, he said. Why are you so 
imprudent, my friend, why so rash?” 

The question was very tenderly put. It pleased this be- 
wildering bundle of contradictions, whose erotic intrigues 
were matters of notorious scandal throughout the length 
and breadth of theatrical Paris, to adopt toward George 
Mirfield the attitude of an adoring mother, an attitude 
which was scarcely justified by the slight difference of age 
between them. George, however, submitted to her little 
lectures with the best grace in the world. Her motherly 
treatment relieved him from the necessity of making love 
to her, an advantage which he fully appreciated. 

“ What a question to ask!” he answered her now, smiling 
carelessly back into her big, soft brown eyes. “ Imagine, 
to ask of a man of my type why he is rash ! My soul, you 
might as well ask of the sun why it shines, or of the grass 
why it is green — not that it is green just now. I suppose 
it is because it is my nature to, as the song says — no, by 
the way, I believe it is a hymn. Is it a hymn or a song, 
now? I wonder if Barnstaple could tell us?” 

But Barnstaple was in the middle of a rather strongly 
seasoned English anecdote, which the two Anglo-Indians 
were enjoying with quiet internal chuckles, and which lit- 
tle Fauvelle was trying her hardest to understand, and 
luckily for herself not making much of a hand at it. 

“ Leave Barnstaple to his hetises” said madame, refusing 
to be put off by the lightness of his reply. “ George, my 
friend, you speak of men of your type. It is just because 
you are not of Barnstaple’s type that I grieve my soul for 
you. This mad play of yours, what reason has it, what 
motive? Do not tell me that you play expressly to win 
money, as Barnstaple does. It is not true; you care noth- 
ing for the money. It is not that the gambling has so 
strong a power over yo:i that you cannot keep apart 


54 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


from it, for you can keep away from it if you choose. 
I have known you not to touch a card for a month. 
See you, my friend,” she dropped her voice still lower, 
and laid her hand near him on the table, as if anxious 
to compel his closer attention, “I have my thoughts 
sometimes — my thoughts of the more good, the more pure, 
the more holy, and when I think those thoughts I think 
of you, and wonder and grieve. In those hours of the most 
serious I say to myself, ‘Is it that he would forget and 
that he finds it difficult? Is it then, when he cannot forget 
a past that troubles him, that he turns with a desperation 
that is almost madness to the tables and the play?’ And 
it seems to me that it must be like that. So many of us 
have pasts which we would forget if we could — if we could.” 

George glanced round at the circle of grinning faces. 
One of the strangers had been trying to explain to Ger- 
maine Fauvelle, in his extremely broken French, the point 
of Barnstaple’s disreputable story, and the result had been 
rich and racy in the extreme. 

“Hardly the proper place for sentiment, is it, Mimi?” 
he asked, smiling still, as he brought his glance back to 
hers. “ Have some more Moselle, and tell me how many 
hillets-doux were left for you at the stage door to-night.” 

“ Ah, you make your laugh at me, at the sentiment of a 
grandmother,” she cried softly, lifting her outspread fingers 
from the table with a gesture of repudiation, “ and yet be- 
hind your laugh there is a real emotion. Why choke it 
back, my friend? You would like to persuade me that I 
am wrong, that you are hard and without soul just as these 
others are. But I know, I have seen. You have feelings, 
and a heart, my George. I have seen little things that it 
would disgust you to have known. Mme. la Concierge told 
me about the flowers for her little one’s coffin, and there 
are other things. What I say is true, my friend. You 
are too good to waste your life among this sort of 
thing ” 

Oh, hang it all!” began George, at the end of his pa- 
tience ; but the look in her eyes checked his vexation be- 
fore she had well realized it. “ Upon my soul, you are a 
real friend,” he muttered under his breath, going back to 
a language she could understand. “ There are not many 


THE OFF CHANCE. 


55 


women in your place who would bore themselves to give 
good advice to such a one as I, to such a one as I have 
always been.” 

“ There are!” she contradicted. “There are many who 
would, if they had the courage. We love yon, George, we 
all love you, though you do not pay the court to us as 
some men do — ^perhaps that is the very reason. -My little 
Fauvelle there, tete-de-linotte as she is, wept the other day 
when she was speaking of you. She thinks she loves you 
to despair, that foolish one, and yet she would resign her- 
self never to see you again if she could know you were 
happy among your own people.” 

“ My own people?” echoed George, with a contemptuous 
laugh ; “ much of happiness I should get among them ! 
Why, Mimi, there is not one of them but my own mother 
who would not say ‘Thank God!’ if they heard of my 
death.” 

“Oh, hush, my dear!” she cried, with a quick, genuine 
pity flashing into her face. “ I cannot think such a thing 
as that. You have offended them a little in some way, and 
you imagine they cannot forgive you. But have you asked 
them? Not you! Well, take a word of counsel from an 
old woman and seek reconciliation with your family. This 
life here may not be worth very much at the best, but, be- 
lieve me, there is better value to be got out of it than you 
are getting now. ” 

“Is there?” he asked, with a return to his old air of reck- 
less indifference. “ I don’t believe it, Mimi, and if there 
is, I don’t know how to go to work to get it. It is so long 
since I walked in the paths of propriety that I couldn’t 
find my way back now if I were to try. Or maybe,” he 
added, with the bitterness peeping through his carelessness 
for a moment again, “ maybe I’ve shut the gate leading to 
those desirable walks with my own hand, who can say? 
To the devil with morality, Mimi ! What have I done that 
you should be so severe upon me to-night? My friend, 
you are too good to me; the pity of it is that I am too bad 
to take advantage of your goodness. And now, how much 
longer are we to sit here looking at the remains of the 
feast? Are the cards in the salon^ Mimi?” 

Mimi clasped her hands tragically. 


56 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ The cards !” she cried. “ Heaven ! I have forgotten. I 
have not a clean pack left. What are we to do?” 

Barnstaple, in the very climax of another scurrilous on 
dit^ stopped suddenly and turned round with a scowl which 
was irresistibly suggestive of a fox interrupted at the very 
door of the hen-roost. 

“No cards!” he said. “What a damnable piece of 
stupidity!” 

“All right, old man,” put in George with an easy tran- 
quillity which smoothed away the effect of the other’s 
rough brutality in a breath. “We are not utterly lost, 
even now. I have a dozen packs unopened in my apparte- 
ment upstairs ; they are at your service, madame. Shall I 
fetch them?” 

Madame made some grateful little remark, and he went 
off after them at once. 

He was so long away that Barnstaple began to fume 
again, in the fear that he was to be done out of his night’s 
plunder after all. But by and by they heard his footstep 
on the public stairway, coming down from his cheap rented 
rooms on the fifth floor. 

“Here he comes!” said Barnstaple, filling up hastily. 
“ Empty the bottles before we move ; the wine is too good 
to be wasted. What has come to you now, Germaine?” 
he asked, arrested suddenly in the act of filling her glass 
by the odd manner in which she was gazing over his head. 

Facing round to the door to see what Mile. Fauvelle’s 
scared stare might mean, he found George standing there 
with a telegram in his hand and such a queer look on his 
usually devil-may-care face that he left his seat and went a 
step or two toward him in expectation of he knew not what. 

“ What the deuce is up now?” he asked. “ Anybody dead?” 

“I found this pushed under my door,” said George, 
handing him the paper, and going to the side table he 
helped himself to a stiff dose of neat brandy, while Barn- 
staple, after fumbling about with his glasses, held the paper 
close up under the gas and read the message slowly aloud : 

“ ‘Both your cousins dead. Should advise your return 
home. Only one infant’s life between you and presump- 
tive heirship. Letter following. — Alice Mirfield.’” 


THE OFF CHANCE. 


57 


“Why, man alive!’* he cried, when he had fought his 
way through to the end, “ you don’t mean to tell us that 
you are bowled over like that by the loss of a cousin or 
two ! I thought it was a mother at the very least. Why, 
this is a matter for congratulation! Who’s the infant, by 
the way? Can’t you bribe somebody to go over on a secret 
mission and inoculate it with small-pox or some such pleas- 
ant little trifle?” 

“ 1 know nothing about the youngster,” George answered, 
coming back to the table, and bringing his brandy with 
him. “ There must have been another little one at The 
Fallow since I last heard, I suppose. I shall hear all about 
that to-morrow.” 

“A new-born infant! Better and better!” exclaimed 
Barnstaple. “ I expect babies are something like puppies 
before they’ve had the distemper — the chances are more 
against than for their coming through all right. It’s a 
very good off chance, George, my boy — a rattling good 
off chance! Conceive the situation!” he went on in 
French to the two ladies, who had been watching and 
listening with close attention. “ By the death of two cous- 
ins our friend George here suddenly finds himself next in 
succession — bar one atom of humanity who hasn’t got over 
the danger of its first tooth yet — to an earldom, which is 
rather better than a French marquisate, and a fortune of 
about five hundred thousand francs a year. This, mes- 
dames, is what, in sporting English we call a thundering 
good off chance.” 

“A thundering good off chance,” echoed little Fauvelle 
in parrot-like repetition. “I know your ‘off chance.’ I 
have heard of it before. See you, my friend!” she cried, 
reaching across Barnstaple to take George’s hand, “see 
you ! I, the firstly of all the world, drink to you and your 
‘off chance.’ That baby must die of its very first tooth. 
I drink to Milord Mirfield of the future.” 

“I drink that toast too!” cried Barnstaple noisily. 
“Here’s success to The Off Chance, George!” 

“Thank you,” said George soberly, as they all lifted 
their glasses and nodded to him. “ I have not quite got 
hold of it yet. It’s a bit sudden the news of the two 
deaths coming at once like this. Isn’t it getting late? 
Drop my family affairs and let us get to the cards.” 


58 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


CHAPTER VI. 

ABNEY GARTH BRINGS HOME THE HEIR. 

As long as Abney Garth lived the memory of the day 
succeeding Mirfield’s death seemed to him, as often as he 
looked back at it, a wild phantasmagoria of an over- wearied 
brain rather than a day that he had in very truth lived 
through. The activity of his mind during the early hours 
of the morning was abnormal. This was Friday morning, 
and he had been on the move with scarcely one unbroken 
period of rest, ever since his early interview with Lord Net- 
ley on Monday. Monday and Wednesday nights had been 
broken up by the journeys to and from Leuville ; all last 
night he had been up with his dying friend, and yet this 
morning found his brain working with the feverish rapid- 
ity and the clearness of a telegraph machine. 

The chaos and perplexity of mind caused by the disclos- 
ures he had been listening to cleared away as if by magic, 
and out of the confusion grew one idea, strong and un- 
shakable. 

At all costs his promise to Mirfield must be kept, but — 
the cost must be his only. The grief and the humiliation of 
sharing this knowledge which had come to him must be 
kept from Lady Mirfield, and also from Lord Netley if pos- 
sible, but above all from Lady Mirfield. 

Mirfield’s yacht must be got rid of, the crew dispersed, 
the presiding genius of those pleasant cruises properly pro- 
vided for elsewhere, and the whole episode closed without 
a hint of the truth coming to the ears of the dead man’s 
wife or father. 

Having come to this resolve, there remained the problem 
how best to carry it out without arousing the faintest sus- 
picion in the mind of the wronged wife. 

And while he was planning and considering how to carry 
out this matter there were other affairs claiming his care- 
ful attention. There were the telegrams from The Fallow 
to be answered in such a way as to prevent anybody com- 
ing up. There must be no attentive eyes and ears about 


ABNEY GARTH BRINGS HOME THE HEIR. 


59 


him just now. There were the formal arrangements for 
the transporting of the body to Yorkshire to be settled 
with the railway people. There was Mrs. Arthur Mirfield, 
a widow of a few days’ standing, waiting for him by her- 
self in a large London hotel ; and there was yet another 
lady who, because of his promise to his dead friend, had an 
equal claim upon his attention and his thoughtful consid- 
eration. But this lady, fortunately, could not reach Lon- 
don until the arrival of the train which left Plymouth at 
nine o’clock. 

This gave him an hour or two in which to arrange for 
her reception, and after he had attended to the other mat- 
ters in regular order, one after the other, he studied the 
“ Furnished Apartments " column of The Daily Telegraph 
and drove off direct to one of the Bayswater addresses he 
found there. 

Here he engaged the drawing-room floor of a well-fur- 
nished house in a quiet street. 

“ The rooms are for my sister, who has just suffered a 
very severe domestic affliction,” he told the landlady. 
“ She arrives from Plymouth by the three-fifty, and ail she 
will need for the first few days will be absolute quiet and 
solitude. I will pay the first month in advance if you like, 
as owing to the hurry I am unable to offer you references.” 

But the landlady would not hear of such a thing. She 
was of opinion that she had not let lodgings for fifteen 
years without knowing a gentleman when she saw one, and 
a thoroughly respectable gentleman, too, if looks meant 
anything at all. She had taken in the leading points of 
Garth’s appearance in her first searching “ look over,” and 
the clear pallor of his shaven face, the touch of gray at his 
temples, the firmness of the lips and chin, and the steady 
directness of his glance had had their due effect upon her. 

“Nothing flighty or disreputable about him,” was her 
summing up. “ Something in the law, perhaps, or maybe 
a writer — anyway, something that needed a lot of learning 
and study. You could tell he was^a great man at books by 
the very cut of his coat.” 

“And the lady’s name, sir?” she. said, as Garth passed 
through the door and stood a moment in the sunshine on 
the steps; “you’ve forgotten the name.” 


60 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“To be sure," he answered, looking up and down the 
street in search of a cab. “ Her name is — Marston. 
Which is my nearest way to the Bayswater Eoad? Thank 
you. Good morning." 

“Fool!" he muttered, as he walked off down th6 street, 
“ to let such a trifle as that nearly trip me up. I ought to 
have been prepared for the question. Let me make sure 
that I don’t make 21 . fiasco of the name business after all." 
And he took out his note-book and wrote down, “ Mrs. 
Marston, 321 Mitford Grove, Bayswater," and walked 
along with the open book in his hand, looking at the ad- 
dress as if the sight of a lady’s name there was something 
new to him. 

This affair arranged as far as it could be for the present, 
he took a cab and drove straight to Long’s Hotel to pre- 
pare Mrs. Arthur Mirfield to resume her journey to Cram- 
lingford that evening. He felt himself that there was 
something ominous and bodeful in this arrangement. It 
was a dreadful beginning to a new life for anybody to enter 
upon it in company with death and mourning, but there 
was nothing else to be done. This poor, crushed, fright- 
ened little soul could not be trusted to make the journey 
by herself, and it would seem disrespectful to the dead 
man’s memory to leave him to the care of uninterested 
officials on this last journey of his. 

And so it happened that the two heirs — the dead and the 
quick, the past and the present — returned to Netley Fallow 
together. 

It was about five o’clock in the morning when Abney 
Garth reached home with his charges, and the whole 
household was up and astir to greet them. 

Mrs. Boston, The Fallow housekeeper, was at the door 
when the carriage drew up, prepared to receive the latest 
additions to the family with all the deference due to their 
positions ; but at the very first sight of the small, brown 
curly head in Mr. Garth’s arms, and the lady, with a pale, 
pinched face and grief-stricken gray eyes, at his side, the 
warm-hearted old servant’s sympathy quite overcame her 
usual strong sense of decorum. 

She ran down the broad steps and held out her motherly 


ABNEY GARTH BRINGS HOME THE HEIR. 


61 


arms for the sleeping child, and when she had it snug and 
close she looked across it at the wan little creature in the 
other corner, and would have liked to put her arms round 
her too. 

“ This is a sad home-coming for you, madam,” she said 
pitifully, as they went up the steps side by side in the clear 
morning sunlight, with the birds singing all round them. 
She knew all about that look of fright in the poor little 
thing’s eyes, she was saying to herself. It was natural 
enough that she should be afraid of the meeting with his 
lordship. Of course she had heard from her husband what 
sort of a man his father was, and how furious he had been 
about the marriage with an unknown little “theatrical;” 
it was understandable enough that she should be terrified 
at the thought of facing the grim old tyrant. “ A terribly 
sad home-coming,” she said again. “His lordship and 
Lady Mirfield are so overcome by this second blow that I 
think they hardly remember that you were to arrive this 
morning, or they would have been here to receive you.” 

“ Likely enough,” said Garth, coming up behind them. 
“Where are they, Mrs. Boston? Not up, I suppose.” 

“Well, his lordship has not been to bed, sir,” she an- 
swered. “ He has spent the whole night in the study, with 
Parker in close attendance. Lady Mirfield has not left her 
rooms since the vicar’s visit yesterday.” 

Garth turned to the pale, trembling little woman, who 
was looking round the large, sombre entrance hall with an 
air of shrinking distaste. 

“ If you can hold out a little longer, I should advise you 
to wait and see Lord Netley before you go to bed,” he said. 
“ It is putting a great strain on you, I’m afraid, but you 
must remember you are bringing him the only comfort the 
world holds for him just now. And,” he added, “ I think 
it would be good for you, too, to get the meeting over — you 
will rest better when the ordeal is past.” 

Slit lifted her scared, frightened eyes to his, and stood 
a second or two looking at him. To Mrs. Boston it seemed 
that she was too terrified to speak; but she noticed how 
Garth’s quiet, steady look appeared to at once restore some 
little touch of courage to her. 

“Kemember,” he said again, “it is for the child’s sake. 


62 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


You would do nothiug to harm the boy in his grand- 
father’s eyes. Lord Netley will certainly want to see him 
when he knows he is in the house ; the little man won’t 
appear to advantage unless you are with him. Give him a 
chance of making a good impression at the start.” 

A faint, a very faint, pink flickered for a moment in 
her white cheeks, and her poor dim eyes kindled a little. 

She put out a shaking hand to him. 

“ I will do whatever you think best,” she whispered; “ I 
will not knowingly stand in the boy’s light.” 

“I know you would not,” said Garth; “I am sure of 
that. I will go to Lord Netley at once, and I will come 
for you as soon as I possibly can. And meantime Mrs. 
Boston will take you to her own little sanctum — the cosiest 
corner in the house, Mrs. Arthur — and give you a hot, 
strong cup of tea, with a new egg beaten in it. Keep up 
courage; it will not be so bad as you think.” 

“ That is just like Mr. Garth to be so thoughtful,” said 
Mrs. Boston, as she led the way to her room, laboring a lit- 
tle under her unusual burden. “ I never knew such a man ! 
He thinks of everything, and I believe he can do every- 
thing. To see the way he was nursing this little darling 
of yours one would have thought he had been used to chil- 
dren all his life. He is a real bonny boy, ma’am. Pray 
God he may live to be a blessing to you and to us all ! 
How he sleeps! I expect he was awake beyond his usual 
time last night, and he is making up for it now. The 
earl is sure to worship him, ma’am ; he loves Miss Daisy — 
Lady Mirfield’s little one — but this one, being a boy, will 
make all the difference in the world.” 

“ I hope he may love him,” Mrs. Arthur answered gently, 
but the reply was so listless, and it was so palpable that she 
did not want to talk, that Mrs. Boston held her peace, and 
attended to her wants in silence, until Garth capie back to 
fetch them to Lord Netley. 

The old man was very stricken by the double blow that 
had fallen on him. For the time being all his usual air of 
command had forsaken him, and he was only a broken- 
hearted old fellow, who was likely to be exceedingly grate- 
ful for any crumb of comfort that fell in his way ; and the 
beautiful boy that this white-faced, timid little woman 


ABNEY GARTH BRINGS HOME THE HEIR. 63 

was bringing to him was a very substantial crumb of com- 
fort indeed. 

And the child, waking up just at the right moment, 
fresh and happy in his mother’s arms, took the reins into 
his baby hands from the start, and won his grandfather’s 
heart by his fearless impertinence. 

“I want to get down, muvver, please,” he said, waking 
up at the noise of the opening door, as Garth ushered 
them into the study. He was quite wide awake in a 
moment, very much astonished at finding himself dressed 
and in his mother’s arms instead of in bed, and anxious to 
investigate his novel surroundings on his own account. 

At the sound of the baby command Lord Netley sat sud- 
denly up out of the depths of his big chair and watched 
the pale little mother set the child down, warm and rosy, 
out of the shawl he had been wrapped in. 

“ What’s vis place?” said the small creature again, look- 
ing round the darkened room with the air of an emperor. 

“ I don’t like it, it’s dark.” 

Then his quick eyes caught sight of the white-haired old 
man watching him from the other side of the room, and 
he walked straight across to him and put his hands on his 
knees and looked up placidly into his face. 

“ Is vis your house, please?” he asked politely. “ I don’t 
fink I like it vewy much. Haven’t you got no windows?” 

His lordship turned to the silent Parker, waiting near 
his chair. 

“ Pull the blinds up,” he said sharply. “ Don’t let the . 
child’s first idea of his new home be gloomy and forbid- 
ding.” 

The harsh tone of the command caught the boy’s atten- 
tion at once. 

” Is you cwoss?” he said, examining his grandfather’s 
face with an air of calm inquiry. “ I don’t love cwoss peo- 
ple. I’m cwoss sometimes. Muvver don’t love me when 
I’m cwoss. Is you cwoss?” 

The old man put his hand over the baby fingers on his 
knee hesitatingly, almost as if he was afraid the child 
might resent the caress. 

“ What’s your name?” he asked. “ What have they 
called you?” 


64 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“Artie,” he answered; “muvver’s son, Artie. Is you 
cwoss?” 

It was evident he could not leave the subject until his 
mind had been set at rest on it. 

“No, I’m not cross,” his lordship assured the small 
questioner with impressive gravity. “ I am never going to 
be cross with Artie, never at all. Then Artie will love 
me, and stay with me always.” 

“And muvver too!” cried Artie, taking his grandfather 
up quick and short on the word. “And muvver too, 
always.” 

The suggestion seemed to recall his new daughter-in- 
law’s presence to Lord Netley’s memory; he looked across 
the room at her. She was sitting just inside the door, 
where Garth had drawn up a chair for her, her whole at- 
titude suggestive of utter prostration. 

“And mother too,” repeated the old man, with a touch 
of unusual diffidence in his manner, which showed how 
thoroughly his old habit of authority had been shaken out 
of him. “That is, if mother will,” and he struggled up 
out of his chair, with the baby’s hand in his, and made a 
step or two toward the door. 

“ This young man has made me forgetful,” he said. “ It 
was good of you to bring him to me. I begin to think 
that perhaps your goodness is more than I deserve. I 
have been harsh and unforgiving in the past ; will you be 
more generous and forget my shortcomings? Let the boy 
make peace between us, my dear.” 

Mrs. Mirfield still sat motionless for a moment, with her 
eyes bent on the carpet and her small hands fluttering in 
and out and about one another in a very agony of speech- 
less agitation, and then she lifted her eyes and looked at 
the old man and the bonny boy, hand in hand, in the 
middle of the room, and with a low, sorrowful little cry 
she darted across to them and dropped at Lord Netley’s 
feet in a passion of emotion. 

“You are too good to me!” she gasped, her words fight- 
ing with her overmastering sobs. “ Don’t talk to me of 
forgiveness — it is I who need it from you ! I am wicked 
past all pardon ; but for the sake of my boy you must let 
me — let me — stay. I could not part with him — now I am 


ABNEY GARTH BRINGS HOME THE HEIR. 


65 


so alone — it would kill me — kill me — I should die, and my 
death would be at your door ! You must — you must let me 
stay." 

“ Muvver, muvver !" cried Artie, with his two short 
arms clasped round her down-bent head, “ muvver, ducky, 
don’t cwy! I’ll stay wif you, muvver, if you won’t cwy." 

Lord Netley shrank back helplessly from the sobbing 
creature, with a glance of very palpable distaste at Garth, 
who hurried forward and lifted her on to her feet again 
and led her to a couch, and sent Parker out of the room 
for water. 

“You must make allowances, sir," he said quietly. 
“ Mrs. Mirfield has gone through a very great deal lately, 
enough to shatter any one’s self-control. She has not had 
a night’s rest this fortnight past; she will be calmer when 
she has once had a sound sleep. Arthur would have no- 
body near him at the last but his wife, and it has been a 
great strain on her." 

Lord Netley’s face softened. He came to the couch — 
Artie had already scrambled up, and was trying to get his 
mother’s hands away from her face — and sat down by the 
side of the overwrought little woman. 

“My trouble has made me selfish," he said, putting a 
gentle hand on her shoulder. “ In my own grief I was for- 
getting yours. My dear, we will comfort each other, and 
when that fails, this grandson of mine shall comfort us 
both. You shall be another daughter to me, Molly, my 
child, and, for the years that are left to me, I will do what 
I can to lessen your sense of loss." 

“ You are too good to me," she murmured, sobbing still, 
but much more quietly, “ too good. I will try to deserve 
your kindness, but I never shall — never!" 

“ Just a lot of play-acting airs, and nothing more," said 
Parker, when he met Daisy’s nurse, on his way back to the 
study with the water for Mrs. Arthur. 

There was a very general prejudice against this play- 
actress person and her boy among the servants, and nobody 
felt this more strongly than Lessman, who, on the arrival 
of the new little heir, foresaw the dethronement of her own 
darling, and whatever Lessman felt on any subject her 
elderly admirer, Parker, felt also. 


66 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“I should like to know,” said that estimable man, re- 
suming his lofty and majestic criticism on the scene he 
had just witnessed, “ I should just like to know when you 
would catch a lady, a real bred one, making such an exhi- 
bition of herself as that? Flinging herself down on the 
floor, and grovelling at his lordship’s feet, and howling and 
sobbing, and crying out that she was too wicked to live, 
and the Lord knows what. ’Pon my soul. Miss Lessman, 
I expected to see her back hair come tumbling down, like 
it always does in the harrowing scenes in the plays, and I 
began to wonder when they were going to turn the lime 
light on.” 

“But you don’t mean to say,” muttered Lessman, evi- 
dently very much impressed by what she had heard, “ you 
don’t mean to say she really went on like that? Whatever 
could she mean by being too wicked to live? How did his 
lordship take it, Mr. Parker?” 

“ Looked disgusted, as well he might.” 

“ And how did it finish?” 

“ Oh, I didn’t see the finish. That officious young peda- 
gogue Garth took it on himself to send me out of the 
room for some water for her hysterical ladyship, and I sup- 
pose it’s about time I appeared with it. Oh ray war!” 

Lessman nodded a reply to this elegant farewell and went 
olf quietly to her breakfast. But although she said noth- 
ing, her head was full of Parker’s story, and in especial 
her thoughts busied themselves with his exaggerated re- 
production of Mrs. Arthur’s confession of wickedness. 

“ Too wicked to live!” said Lessman to herself. “ What 
on earth could she have meant by telling his lordship such 
a thing as that?” 

When the interview with Lord Netley was over, and Mrs. 
Arthur Mirfield and her boy had been taken to the rooms 
prepared for them and left in charge of one of the maids, 
to whose pleasant face Artie had taken a fancy, when at 
last there seemed to be nothing left for Abney Garth to do 
for a few hours, he still made no attempt to gain a little of 
the rest he so much needed. 

It was Lady Mirfield who was in his thoughts most just 
now. She would want to hear all the particulars of her 
husband’s last hours as soon as she could bear to see any- 


ABNEY GARTH BRINGS HOME THE HEIR. 


67 


body, and Garth kept himself in readiness for her sum- 
mons, throwing himself ready dressed on the couch in his 
room, and snatching every now and then a few minutes of 
dream-laden sleep, which did him more harm than good. 

The summons he was waiting for did not come until 
midday was already past, and Mrs. Arthur and her boy 
were already out on the “ ladies’ lawn” at the side of the 
house. Garth heard the child’s voice through one of the 
open corridor windows, as he made his way to Lady Mir- 
field’s apartments. 

She was sitting in a low chair when he entered the room, 
with her glance on her flaxen-haired little daughter at her 
feet. She was very white, with a whiteness like marble, so 
cold and hard, and the movement of her hand, as she put 
it out in greeting, was like the movement of an automaton, 
mechanical and lifeless. 

He took the hand and sat down near her, and waited 
for her to speak. He felt dimly that there was danger in 
this unnatural calm, felt that he should need all his caution, 
and her first words proved the keenness of his judgment. 

4 After what seemed to him, in the overstrained state of 
his nerves, an eternity of silence, she flashed round on him 
with a swiftness which told something of the intensity of 
the feelings behind her immovable bearing. 

“Abney,” she said, with her eyes full on his, “why was 
I not sent for?” 

“ Sent for?” he echoed, as if he hardly understood the 
question. “Sent for. Lady Mirfield!” 

“ Yes, why was I not sent for before the — the end?” 

“There was no time,” he answered. The momentary 
surprise was over and he was on his guard again. “ The 
end came so quickly.” 

“ It is your pity that keeps you from telling me the 
truth,” she said harshly, still looking at him as if she would 
force from him all he knew, and in spite of all his strength 
of will his glance fell away from hers as she made her ac- 
cusation. “But I know how it was. He — my husband — 
did not want me. His thoughts never turned toward me 
in his last moments. ” 

Garth leaned toward her and took one of her cold hands 
in his. 


68 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ Dear Lady Mirfield, I assure you I did not reach his 
bedside until ' 

“ Yes, I know all that,” she cried, putting a hand to her 
throat, as if to press back the unconquerable pain that rose 
from her heart. “ I know about that. But why was I not 
sent for — before? The moment the accident occurred? 
The moment the injured peop e reached Paddington?” 

“ You know he was unconscious for some hours,” Garth 
suggested gently. 

“ Still,” she said again, with such a thrill of suffering in 
her voice that Garth could har dy keep still — “ still, if he 
had wanted me at all there would have been some attempt 
made to send for me. Abney, ’ she cried passionately, 
“why was it that my husband never loved me? Why was 
it that, with all my efforts to win his affection, I never got 
nearer his heart What was it that kept him apart from 
me? Oh, the misery to think of it now!” 

She got up and began pacing the room, and Garth sat 
still, trying not to feel bitterly toward the dead, and find- 
ing it one of the hardest tasks he had ever set himself. 

She stopped in front of him presently, to put another of 
her self-torturing questions, and was struck by the change 
in him. 

“ You are worn out,” she said. “ Have you had any rest 
yet?” 

“Not yet.” 

“ And I am keeping you here ” 

“ Not at all. I could not rest, under any circumstances, 
just yet. My nerves must steady down a little first.” 

“ It is awful for us all,” she muttered, resuming her fit- 
ful pacing of the room ; “ but surely it is worse for me than 
any one. I look back at my life with him and find no 
comfort anywhere. If I could only persuade myself that I 
had helped to make his short life happy ! If I could re- 
member only one day — just one, out of all his life — when 
he had seemed to find rest — absolute restand peace — in my 
society! But I can’t — not one, Abney!” 

“ It is a houseful of sorrow,” said Abney quietly, stoop- 
ing to touch Daisy’s bright hair, and so getting his miser- 
able eyes away from that hard, white face for a moment. 
If he could but have found a shred of comfort to offer her. 


ABNEY GARTH BRINGS HOME THE HEIR. 69 

Think of it, Lady Mirfield! A childless father, two 
widows, and two fatherless babes, in one short week. How 
little we thought on Monday, when you brought me that 
letter with the French postmarks ” 

“ Two widows?” She stopped her walk in front of him 
again. “Two widows? Is she here, Abney — poor Ar- 
thur’s wife?” 

“ Yes; and her boy.” 

“ Her boy — Arthur’s boy,” she said slowly. 

“ She is crushed with her grief, too ” he began, but 

she broke vehemently across his words. 

“ Her grief — hers? But he loved her! Think how it 
must warm her heart to remember that she made him 

happy. But — I — I ” She stopped, with a sudden 

catch in her breath, and began again abruptly, “ Ought I 
to see her, Abney?” 

“ You ought to do just what will be most in keeping 
with your own wishes. She, Mrs. Arthur, is very quiet 
and unassuming; she does not expect anything in the way 
of ceremonious receptions.” 

“ Poor little soul ! Quite alone in a houseful of stran- 
gers. Not a creature that she can open her heart to, and 
her grief nearly as new as mine! Abney,” she turned to 
him with some faint sign of softening in her mask-like 
face, “ would she — do you think she would come to me 
here?” 

He rose at once, relieved beyond measure by the request, 
and went to where Mrs. Arthur was sitting under the big 
beech on the ladies’ lawn, watching her boy at play with 
his new friend. 

“It will be worse than the other,” she said, when she 
knew what he had come for. “ A thousand times worse. 
If you could only understand ! You will not go away and 
leave us, not just this first time? Afterward, I shall have 
grown more used to facing her. Just now I can only think 
of the wrong I am doing her in coming here with my 
boy and ousting her from the first place. You will not 
leave us.” 

In the midst of her own cold, homeless grief, and not- 
withstanding her very real sympathy with Arthur Mir- 
field ’s widow. Lady Mirfield had, unknown to herself, some 


70 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


touch of the ancient prejudice against her husband’s sister- 
in-law still lingering in her mind. She had, unconsciously, 
painted in her imagination a fancy portrait of this young 
woman with tenth-rate theatrical antecedents — a portrait 
in which yellow hair and very red lips were the most prom- 
inent particulars. TThis picture was so vividly in her mind 
that, when Abney Garth opened the door and made way 
for a. slender little woman, pale and pretty, with soft, 
plenteous nut-brown hair and clear blue-gray eyes, raised 
just now in a timid, pleading way that had some touch of 
fear mixed with its entreaty, when she saw this contrast to 
the crude portrait of her imagination. Lady Mirfield stood 
a moment in incredulous surprise. She had not known 
how strong her distaste had been for that fancy picture of 
hers until she measured it by her relief at finding how it 
differed from the reality. 

It was an impulse of protection, even more than of lik- 
ing, that urged her forward, after that surprised pause, and 
made her put her arms round the slight figure and pull the 
tender, pleading face down to her shoulder. 

“ Oh, Molly,” she cried, so touched by the sorrow in the 
small face that she took no thought for the fact that they 
were strangers, “oh, Molly, poor little patient Molly! If 
I could only be patient too! But I can’t! There is too 
much remorse mixed up with my sorrow.” 

“And is there none in mine?” cried Molly in a half- 
strangled voice. “ Is- it nothing to have stood between my 
husband and those who loved him?” 

“ But he loved you, Molly. You will always know that 
you more than made up to him for all he lost. That is the 
sharpest pang in my grief, Molly, that I was a burden in- 
stead of a blessing to my husband.” 

Molly moaned in the other woman’s arms — such a 
strange sound it was, like the cry of one who has resolved 
to suffer and endure all in silence, but whose resolution 
fails her at the critical moment, when the anguish reaches 
its cruelest climax. 

Garth moved uneasily at his post by the window, as if 
that smothered cry was too much for him, but he did not 
interfere, his help was not needed. Mrs. Arthur had lifted 


ABNEY GARTH BRINGS HOME THE HEIR. 71 

her face and was speaking quietly, with the tears following 
one another down her wan cheeks. 

“ Tell me all, poor dear,” she said, “ tell me everything. 
Let me feel every pang, every sorrow you have felt. Let 
me gain the only comfort left me by knowing that I am 
some poor little comfort to you. Ease your aching heart 
by sharing the burden of the pain with me.” 

“ If I could — if I could!” cried Charlotte, as if she were 
Avrestiing single-handed with an antagonist stronger than 
herself. 

And then, all in an instant, the pleading, yearning sym- 
pathy of the small, pale face, so close to her own, bore down 
the rigid barriers of her grief ; she dropped her face in her 
hands, and Garth heard her sobs from where he stood. 

“ Would you go now?” said Molly to him, as she led the 
weeping woman to a chair and knelt down by her. “ I am 
not afraid any longer, Mr. Garth. God has set me this 
task, and He will give me the strength to carry it out.” 

And Garth went, wondering at the new light in her sor- 
rowful eyes, the sudden strength of purpose gathering 
round her mobile lips. 

“ She is just one of those women,” he told himself, “ who 
scarcely ever trouble to make up their minds so long as 
there are others to do it for them, who remain unconscious 
of their own strength of will until some object presents it- 
self which they think worth fighting for, and then, behold ! 
This instinct of maternity, what a wonderful thing it is! 
How marvellous the infiuence must be which can bring 
strength out of weakness, and make the timid bold to the 
death. Poor little mother! It is a task she ha& under- 
taken ! Will she ever carry it through, I wonder? At any 
rate she has nailed her colors to the mast, and she will 
fight her ship as long as two planks hold together under 
her.” 


72 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


OHAPTEE VII. 

“she’s NOT EVERYTHING SHE SHOULD BE.” 

The first overwhelming rush of grief was over at Netley 
Fallow, and the household was by degrees drifting back 
into some semblance of its usual routine. The gong went 
at meal times, and the two ladies and Abney Garth began 
to take their food in each other’s society, instead of hav- 
ing trays sent up to their respective apartments, as had 
been the rule lately. 

Lord Netley was the only person who showed no inclina- 
tion to resume his usual habits. He still had all his meals 
brought to him in his study, and kept entirely away from 
the family circle. As the days went by the people in the 
house began to understand that the trial he had gone 
through had been too terrible for a man of his years, that 
the shock of his two sons’ deaths was likely to have a per- 
manent effect upon him. 

These last ten days had aged him as much as as many 
years of ordinary wear and tear would have done. At sixty 
he was already a feeble old man, with a reluctance for ex- 
ercise of every kind, a reluctance even to move from his 
study chair more than the regulation number of times a 
day ; and if his intellect was still as clear as ever, it was 
hardly as vigorous as it had been. His headwork was as 
sound, perhaps, but less spontaneous. His brain had lost 
the trick of thinking well and quickly at the same time — 
lost its gift of intuitive perception. And in the trouble 
of this sudden failure — for Garth was almost sure he was 
conscious of the change in himself — the only consolation 
he found was in the society of the new little Lord Mirfield 
and his mother. 

It was astonishing, so the servants said among them- 
selves, to see how that theatrical person was worming her 
way into everybody’s good graces. Indeed, by the end of 
the first fortnight at The Fallow, things had gone so far 
in the very servants’ hall itself — the last stronghold of 
prejudice and intolerance — that one or two of the bolder 


“ she’s not everything she should be.” 73 

spirits had openly declared their opinion that a woman is 
not of necessity a lost creature because she has been on the 
stage, and they had even gone further and declared that if 
Mrs. Arthur had been an actress a dozen times over that 
would not alter the fact that she had the sweetest voice 
and the winningest smile in Yorkshire. 

To this rank heresy Lessman made no answer, but she 
begrudged Mrs. Arthur her growing popularity in the ser- 
vants’ hall, just as she begrudged Artie the first place in 
his grandfather’s affections, and, in her loyalty to what she 
magnificently styled “ the aristocratic side of the house,” 
she would have delighted in anything that brought dis- 
credit on the little heir or his mother. It was an unami- 
able but an almost inevitable feeling, under all the circum- 
stances. Baby Daisy was deposed, and not being old 
enough to resent the deposition herself, her faithful nurse 
resented it for her. 

Perhaps, among all the people who were affected by Mrs. 
Arthur Mirfield’s appearance with her boy at Netley Fal- 
low, there was only one who felt it more deeply than poor, 
shallow-pated Lessman, and this person had certainly more 
justification for her resentment. 

Mrs. George Mirfield had almost a right to detest Mrs. 
Arthur and her handsome little boy. This babe of two 
years was the^only obstacle left between her son George — 
that reprobate who was living on his wits on the Continent 
— and the direct succession to the family title and estates. 
The mother who, in such a case as this, did not hate the 
only remaining obstacle would have been something more 
than human. And, in addition to the crime of standing 
between her son and his inheritance, Mrs. Mirfield had an- 
other cause of complaint against these people, in their 
utterly plebeian birth. It might be a simple matter 
enough for the earl and Charlotte to overlook Mrs. Ar- 
thur’s deplorable past, but Mrs. Mirfield had an uneasy 
suspicion that if she followed suit, and adopted this little 
daughter of the people without a protest, people would 
suggest that it was because she had a touch of fellow-feel- 
ing for her. The daughter of the army meat contractor 
was forever tormenting herself with these memories of her 
own vulgar ancestry. In this instance it produced a touch 


u 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


of condescension in her manner toward Mrs. Arthur which 
that observant young woman found peculiarly irritating. 
From any other member of the family she would have 
taken it meekly enough, but from this would-be lady, with 
her fine airs and pretentious manners, it was a little more 
than she could always put up with. 

And so there was a feud between the two mothers from 
the first, and Lessman was not slow to find out that Mrs. 
Mirfield was with her in her antagonism toward the new- 
comers. 

But the elder lady did not get much opportunity for 
venting her spleen while Abney Garth was present, for the 
secretary had openly adopted the position of Mrs. Arthur’s 
friend and champion, and was always ready to side with 
her upon any and every occasion. 

Ever since the day of Mirfield’s death Garth had known 
that affairs were only patched up for a time; that there 
was no safety for anybody as things stood now, and that it 
would he necessary for him to have an interview with 
“ Mrs. Marston ” at 321 Mitford Grove, Bayswater, before 
any definite settlement was arrived at. 

There was scarcely an instant in the day that this feel- 
ing of insecurity was not in his mind, and at the very v -irliest 
moment that he could suggest it he took a day’s leave, 
“for business of his own in London.” 

When he went to say “good-by” to Mrs. Arthur he 
found her in the children’s day nursery, from which the 
night nurseries opened off on either side, at work by a table 
near the window, cutting out some small garment for Ar- 
tie, the making of whose clothes was her one recreation 
just now. 

Garth’s first action on coming into the room was rather 
significant. He glanced at the doors on either side of the 
room, and seeing the one leading to Daisy’s sleeping apart- 
ment open, he crossed over and closed it. 

“It is arranged that I go to town to-day,” he said, com- 
ing to the other side of her cutting-table, and going 
straight to what he had to say in a thoroughly business- 
like manner. “ I get away from here about three and catch 
the three fifty-five up from York.” 

“And when do you get back?” 


“ she’s not everything she should be.” 75 

It was evident that she had heard of this visit to Lon- 
don before, and equally evident that she was resigned to it 
as an unavoidable, evil. 

“To-morrow, I hope.” 

“ Say to-morrow without fail, Abney.” She had already 
slipped into the habit of calling him by his first name, as 
the rest of the family did. “ You don’t know how I dread 
being left alone — even for one day.” 

“ Yes, I do,” he answered promptly; “ that is why I have 
put it off so long, to give you time to grow a little more 
sure of yourself. Bar unforeseen accidents, I promise you 
I will be back to-morrow. Not that I think there is any 
fear of a catastrophe now.” 

“There is always a fear with me,” she said, folding her 
small hands on the table in front of her and looking away 
through the open window with an air of sorrowful patience, 
“ and I begin to think there always will be. It is chang- 
ing my whole nature, Abney. I don’t know myself. I 
don’t think I shall ever get my old high spirits back 
again.” 

“ Oh, but you will though,” he answered cheerily. “ It 
is early days yet to talk about high spirits ; they will come 
in time. Why, I heard you making Lord Netley laugh 
last night.” 

But she was too busy with her own thoughts to heed his 
kindly meant words. 

“ I don’t think I should be so cowardly if it were not for 
Mrs. Mirfield,” she went on. “I am always afraid of her 
suspecting something, and always fancying she does sus- 
pect; it is the usual guilty conscience, I suppose. She 
hates me, Abney, and 3ie would revel in my downfall. If 
she were once to have her suspicions aroused, if she once 
got hold of the fact that Artie has no legal right to the 
position he fills here, she would never rest till she had 
wormed out the whole unhappy truth.” 

“ But she never will get hold of that fact,” he answered 
her decisively, “so why worry about it? And, do you 
know, I would not encourage such faint-hearted notions by 
talking about them if I were you. It is foolish on all ac- 
counts — foolish, because it keeps your anxiety alive, and 
foolish, because one should never talk about secrets more 


76 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

than is absolutely necessary; there is always a certain 
amount of danger in it.” 

If for once Abney Garth could have accomplished the 
feat of being in two places at one time — if, while he was 
being whirled along on his way to that critical interview 
with “Mrs. Marston,” in a stiflingly hot railway carriage 
on the Great Northern Eailway, he could also have been 
present at a conversation which was taking place in the 
cool shade of the avenue at Netley Fallow, he would 
have received irrefragable proof of the truth of that last 
remark of his. 

Mrs. George Mirfield, whose house adjoined the chief 
entrance gates of The Fallow, had seen Lessman and the 
two children, from her bedroom window, running about in 
the shadow of the big trees; and one of Mrs. George Mir- 
field’s greatest weaknesses was a liking for a quiet little 
talk with a confidential servant, when there was no chance 
of interruption. Consequently it followed that, five min- 
utes from the time she first sighted them, Mrs. George 
Mirfield was also sauntering in the shadow of the big trees, 
and in two more minutes she was listening to Lessman ’s 
account of her grievance in being sent out alone with both 
the children when she “ was only engaged for one.” 

Mrs. Mirfield bore the infliction with patience which 
would have been incomprehensible had she not had a pur- 
pose of her own to serve by it. But she was only waiting 
her turn. 

“I saw Mr. Garth drive by this morning,” she began 
presently, when Lessman’s fit of grumbling had somewhat 
exhausted itself. “ I noticed he was driving the big gray 
horse that they use for long journeys. Was he going 
far?” 

“He was going to York to catch the London train, 
ma’am.” 

“ London? Is he going to London?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“ For long?” 

“ Oh, no; I heard him say he should be hack to-morrow 
wtihout fail.” 

“ Ah ! I thought the earl would not get along without 
him for more than a day or two.” 


“ she’s not everything she should be.” 77 

It was one of Mrs. George Mirfield’s little peculiarities 
to always speak of her brother-in-law as “ the Earl.” 

“Well,” said the girl, with the reticent air of a person 
who could say a lot but is withheld by a sense of delicacy, 
“ well, I don’t think, somehow, as it is his lordship as is 
bringing Mr. Garth hack in such a hurry this time, Mrs. 
Mirfield.” 

Mrs. Mirfield turned sharp round and looked the nurse 
in the face. 

“ Who then?” she asked shortly. 

But Lessman was not prepared to plump down her in- 
formation in reply to such a “ stand and deliver ” style of 
request as this. Mrs. Mirfield saw her mistake at once and 
made haste to rectify it. 

“ Mr. Garth is a very lucky young man to be in such re- 
quest,” she said. “ He seems to be quite the most impor- 
tant person in the house just now. The earl should keep 
him more in his place. The next thing will be a love 
affair between him and one of those two young widows, 
and a nice scandal that would be. I’ve had the idea in my 
head for the last day or two that he was getting rather too 
attentive to Mrs. Arthur. That is the worst of these ac- 
tress people; they are always so eager for admiration.” 

This kind of bait was more to Lessman’s liking; she 
rose to it at once. 

“Well, they do seem very great friends, that’s certain,” 
she answered. “ We’ve all noticed it, down in the hall. 
But I’ve got a fancy that it ain’t love that draws ’em to- 
gether, nor yet simple friendship. I think ” She low- 

ered her voice to a whisper of breathless enjoyment — “ I’m 
almost sure there’s something of a deal more consequence 
between them than anything of that sort, Mrs. Mirfield.” 

Mrs. Mirfield was clever enough to hold her tongue; 
one wrong word and the coming confidence might be 
checked. She nodded her head, as if this was just what 
she had suspected all along, and fixed her big black eyes 
expectantly on Lessman’s mystery-laden face. 

“ They were talking about some secret this morning, him 
and her. He’d come up to the nursery to say ‘good-by’ 
to her, and I was at Miss Daisy’s window, and — I heard — 
something.” 


78 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“About me?” 

“ Well, it was and it wasn’t. It was more about herself 
than you ; and though I didn’t get hold of her exact mean- 
ing, I knew it was something against her.” 

“Against her? How do you mean?” 

“ Against her or against the child, it’s all one. She said 
something about him not having a legal right — I know 
those were the words she used, a legal right — ‘and if Mrs. 
Miriield once got to know of it,’ she says,. ‘she’d never res-t 
till she’d got at the truth.’ ” 

“ Good God, Lessman, do you know what you are say- 
ing?” 

Mrs. Mirfield had pulled up abruptly and put her hand 
against the trunk of the tree at her side. She was quite 
pale, and looked altogether overcome by the shock of what 
she had heard. 

“Oh, yes, I know what I’m saying well enough,” an- 
swered Lessman. “ If I hadn’t I shouldn’t have repeated 
it to you.” 

“No, no, of course not,” said the startled woman, 
warmed into conciliation by the girl’s air of ruffled dig- 
nity. “ But, you know, this is something dreadful. I — 
I — can’t realize it! To think that she was not Arthur 
Mirlield’s lawful wife after all. You’re quite, quite sure 
you have not made a mistake about the words?” 

“ Quite sure, Mrs. Mirfield. ‘Artie hasn’t any legal 
rights, ’ was the words she used. I’d swear it in a court 
of justice.” 

“ And to think she should have dared to come here and 
palm herself off on the earl in this shameless fashion ! I 
can’t get over it. I think I’ll come on up to the house 
with you now and see what she’s got to say for herself, 
without Mr. Garth at her elbow to prompt her.” 

“Yes, do!” cried Lessman, eager for the discomfiture of 
the person whom she regarded as Baby Daisy’s natural en- 
emy ; “ yes, do, Mrs. Mirfield. It’s my opinion she won’t 
have a word to say for herself without him to back her up. 
You won’t bring my name into it, though, will you? 
Lady Mirfield is such thick friends with her she’d give me 
my notice if she knew I’d been saying anything against her. 
They’re quite like real sisters, them two. Lady Mirfield 


“ she’s not everything she should be.” 


79 


was telling her all about her very own sister’s death the other 
day, and she asked her to call her Lotte, like Mrs. Eees 
used to do. It’s unaccountable to me how they can all be 
so free with her. Parker says that the place where she 
used to act in London is the kind of place where respect- 
able people would never think of going ; he says that was 
what made his lordship so mad. If it had been one of the 
fine West End theatres he would have looked over it more 
easy.” 

“ Very likely,” Mrs. Mirfield answered, but it was evi- 
dent that this branch of the subject had lost some of its 
old interest for her. 

This last suggestion had put all the smaller charges 
against Mrs. Arthur Mirfield out of her mind for the time 
being. What if this thing should be true? Well, then, 
George would step straight into the succession at the earl’s 
death. The thought set her heart leaping with hope. She 
hurried her steps involuntarily, she was all impatience to 
find herself in the presence of this young person, that she 
might put this information to the test by one or two 
searching questions. 

But if she expected to find Mrs. Arthur an easy subject 
to pump, she was mistaken. 

The fact was that nobody at Netley Fallow knew Mrs. 
Arthur yet as she really was. Since her arrival in York- 
shire circumstances had been so heavy upon her that she 
had been glad to shelter herself behind any refuge that 
offered. And yet cowardice was no part of her nature. 
When the need for fighting her own battles- arose there was 
plenty of the true spirit of battle in her. 

“ The ladies were having tea on the ladies’ lawn,” Mrs. 
George Mirfield was told when she reached the house. 
“ Would she wait in the drawing-room, or would she go 
straight out to them?” 

She would go straight out to them. 

She saw them through the long, open windows, two 
sombre figures, in their heavy crape gowns, reclining in 
the unbroken shadow of the big beech tree. 

Mrs. Arthur had her face toward the house, and saw the 
visitor the moment she emerged from the windows. Mrs. 
Arthur’s eyes, like most of that blue-gray color, were good 


80 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


ones for seeing with, and before the other lady was half- 
way across the lawn those long-sighted eyes had seen enough 
to put their owner on her guard and brace herself up, with 
a little quiver of desperation, for whatever might be in 
store for her, though it is probable she did not expect the 
attack to take the form it did. 

“The tea has only just come out,” Lady Mirfield said. 

“ Are you thirsty? No need to ask, though; this weather 
produces a chronic thirst, I think. Mrs. Arthur will give 
you some tea. Molly, my dear, have you a spare cup there?” 

“ I don’t think I will have any tea, thank you, Charlotte, 
it makes one so warm.” She had her company manners 
on now, speaking slowly and languidly, and in a forced, 
artificial voice, which grew very wearisome to the listener 
after the first few minutes. “ I happened to meet Lessman 
with the children in the avenue, and sauntered along with 
them until I found myself at the house without knowing it.” 

It was another of Mrs. George Mirfield’s little ways to 
continually describe her most commonplace actions as the 
result of accidents, for all the world as if she considered it 
“ bad form” to do anything with a definite purpose. 

“ You must have found it very warm walking, I should 
think,” Charlotte said lazily, and Mrs. Mirfield, fancying 
more than was meant in the words, went into an elaborate 
explanation of how she had been tempted by a glimpse of 
the cool shadow under the avenue, caught accidentally from 
her bedroom window. 

After this she wandered off, by a very circuitous route, 
to tell them what she had been doing at her bedroom win- 
dow at that time of day, and arrived at last at the statement 
— manufactured for the occasion — that she had been turn- 
ing over an old collection of papers which she had not 
looked at for more than a year. And then, feeling sure 
that she had given the whole thing an appearance of per- 
fect naturalness, she had arrived at the end she had been 
aiming at. 

“And, among other things,” she said, turning her big, 
prominent eyes on Molly, “ I came across the old copy of 
the Morning Post with the announcement of your marriage 
in it, Mrs. Arthur.” 

“Yes?” said Molly, getting up to move her cane chair 


SHE^S NOT EVERYTHING SHE SHOULD BE.” 


81 


beyond the reach of an intrusive sunbeam which had found 
its way through the thick foliage of the beech. 

She did not reseat herself at once ; there was something 
wrong with the position of the head cushion of the back 
of the chair, and she stood with her face turned from the 
other ladies while she untied and retied it. 

It seemed to be rather an intricate operation, judging 
by the time it took, and Mrs. Mirfield would have given a 
great deal to have got up and watched Molly’s face during 
its performance, but this was more than her courage was 
equal to. So she waited, with resolute patience, until the 
cushion was at last arranged and Molly was seated again, 
calmly looking up into the green depths above her head, and 
then she resumed her subject. 

“ I remember how very much everybody was amused at 
the time over that announcement,” she said; “we almost 
wondered that the paper accepted it.” 

Molly made no sign. The pretty lips, which could look 
so smilingly audacious, were shut closely, and the blue-gray 
eyes went on with their quiet investigations among the 
foliage. It was Charlotte who took up the conversation, 
fighting Molly’s battle because she thought Molly was too 
proud to fight it for herself. 

“Why was everybody so amused?” she asked. “What 
made it so funny?” 

“ Why, the utter absence of savoir faire it betrayed, my 
dear Charlotte. No clergyman’s name mentioned, not 
even the name of the church where the ceremony took 
place. I remember dear Lady Burton laughing about it, 
and saying that it was evident Miss Molly de Courcy — we 
always thought your nom de tliedtre so exquisitely droll, 
Mrs. Arthur, the homely ‘Molly’ and the magnificent ‘de 
Courcy’ go so oddly together. ‘It is quite evident,’ said 
dear Lady Burton, ‘that Miss Molly de Courcy drew up 
the advertisement herself. Arthur Mirfield would have 
known better. He would have given us the chance of 
satisfying ourselves by a look at the church register if we 
had so wished. ’ Such a shrewd woman of the world — Lady 
Burton — sees so much further than most people.” 

“ A thoroughly vulgar-minded woman I call her!” Char- 
lotte answered rather warmly. She had a strong desire 
6 


82 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

to shake Mrs. Mirfield till her teeth rattled. All the 
stronger the desire was because the ill-natured sneer at 
Molly was made with an air of frank amusement which 
precluded open retaliation. “ Such an idea would never 
have occurred to any decent-minded person. ” 

“I don’t know about that, my dear Charlotte.” The 
prominent eyes were on Molly’s upturned face again with 
an eager, hankering look in then; which was in direct con- 
trast with the languid slowness of her speech. “ At any rate 
the idea did certainly occur to me. Mystery in such mat- 
ters is always a mistake. I’m sure you see that for yourself 
now, Mrs. Arthur.” 

“ No,” said Molly, with a gay little laugh of indifference, 
“ I don’t see it even yet, Mrs. Mirfield. But, then, in 
these matters of savoir faire '" — the mimicry of Mrs. Mir- 
field’s exaggerated accent was daringly unmistakable — ” in 
these matter of savoir fairs — do I pronounce the French 
properly? — a Molly de Courcy could not be expected to 
have the dainty discrimination of an Alice Borthwicke, 
could she now? Do you wonder how I know your maiden 
name was Borthwicke? I was reading to Lord Netley yes- 
terday the parliamentary reports. It seems there has been 
a fuss about the quality of the meat supplied to the soldiers, 
and one of the members asked if it were true that one man 
supplied such bad meat to the army that he went by the 
name of Putrid Borthwicke. I wondered what made Lord 
Netley laugh so much about it, and he told me that the 
gentleman with the unpleasant — nom de guerre we will call 
it, as you are so fond of French phrases — was your father.” 

Mrs. Mirfield sat perfectly still, with her round black 
eyes fixed in a stony stare on the pale, smiling little face 
opposite her, and her naturally swart cheek showing a 
vivid scarlet under their generous dose of pearl powder. 

Lady Mirfield leaned her fair head restfully back in her 
chair. She no longer felt the least desire to shake Mrs. 
Mirfield, but she would have liked to give Molly a quiet 
kiss of approval. 

That young woman went smoothly on with what she had 
to say. 

“ Lord Netley seemed to think it almost as funny as you 
thought my absence of savoir fairs ” — again the reproduc- 


“ she’s not everything she should be.” 83 

tion of the other’s labored French — “ but very likely you 
won’t see it in the same light. I don’t think it is often 
easy to join in the laugh against one’s self, do you?” 

It was impossible that Mrs. Mirfield should answer the 
smiling inquiry with befitting dignity, so she held her 
tongue, and Charlotte put in her little contribution. 

“ It depends so much on the manner of the laugh, Molly, 
my child. A spiteful laugh is certainly rather trying to 
the temper, hut a little gentle chaff is quite another thing. ” 

“You are a wonderful person, Lotte,” said Molly, bring- 
ing her eyes down at last to flash a warm look across at the 
speaker. “ You have a positive gift for getting at the 
essence of a thing. Nobody minds well-meant chaff, of 
course.” 

There was a short pause, broken by Mrs. Mirfield. She 
would crush this little plebeian at all costs. Holding such 
a weapon as she held, was it likely that she would restrain 
her hand? 

“ To return to the original point,” she said, sitting up, 
flushed and rigid, on her chair, and putting her question 
with the strength and force of a sledge-hammer. “ Why 
was it that you did not mention the name of the church 
you were married at in the advertisement, and have you 
any objection to telling me it now?” 

“Personally, not the faintest.” In spite of their pale- 
ness — and they were pale, she knew it herself — her lips 
still smiled bravely. “ Personally, I should be delighted 
to gratify your very natural curiosity, but there is my 
duty to Lord Netley to be considered. He told me he 
wished my past dropped, utterly and entirely, from the 
moment I entered his house, and after his great goodness 
to me I am not likely to displease him intentionally. If 
you have any really good reason for wanting to know where 
I was married I should advise you to ask Lord Netley 
himself.” 

“I will take your advice,” said the angry woman, still 
making a show of keeping up appearances. “ I certainly 
have a very good reason for what you term my natural 
curiosity. I think I will go and put my question to the 
earl at once, if he is visible. I dare say I shall see you 
again before I go, so I won’t say good-by.” 


84 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Charlotte watched her across the lawn with a half- 
amused air. 

“ You must not be too hard on her, Molly,” she said in- 
dulgently ; “ remember what a trial it must be to her to 
see you and Artie in the place where her son would other- 
wise be.” 

But Molly’s little flash of spirit was over and done with ; 
she had not even enough courage left to make a congenial 
reply. She rose slowly, as if she was tired, and went over to 
Charlotte and gave her a kiss. It was the first time she had 
done such a thing, for, with an innate perception of their 
relative positions, she- had always left Lady Mirfield to 
make the advance in such matters. 

“ I’m going in to rest a little,” she said, with a touch of 
weariness in her manner. “ The sun has given me a head- 
ache, or perhaps it was Mrs. Mirfield. How she hates me ! 
Lotte, I wish you’d make me a promise.” 

“ Not in the dark, Molly; let me hear what it is.” 

“ I wish you would promise me never to believe any- 
thing — anything^ mind — that you may hear against me 
about that obnoxious past of mine without first telling me 
and giving me a chance to defend myself. I dare say a 
girl in that position — in an inferior theatre, you know — 
would do many things that you would consider incorrect, 
or — even unpardonable. If you ever hear that I have done 
such things, you won’t condemn me unheard, will you? 
If anything were to break up our friendship, Lotte, I 
think it would put the finishing touch to my trouble. I 
don’t think I should care to go on living.” 

“Baby!” said Charlotte, surprised, and a little touched, 
too, by the sudden intensity of the other’s manner. “ Sim- 
pleton! to cry because that ill-natured woman showed a 
sign of her real feeling for you” — for there were brimming 
tears in Molly’s eyes — “the idea of noticing it! Yes, I’ll 
give you the promise you want willingly enough, my dear. 
I should bemoan the break-up of our friendship quite as 
much as you would, Molly, my child, so don’t worry your- 
self about that.” 

Molly stood a moment or two longer, with a wistful, ir- 
resolute look on her face, as if she wanted to say something 
more, but doubted the advisability. She walked away at 


she’s not everything she should be.” 85 


last with the something more still unsaid, and Charlotte 
heard her sigh softly to herself as she picked up her sun 
umbrella and turned toward the house. 

The little scene left rather an impression on Lady Mir- 
field’s memory. She could not get rid of a notion that 
there was a great deal more meaning behind Molly’s en- 
treaty for a fair hearing than she was aware of ; but her 
sympathies were all with the poor little soul. There was 
not an ounce of wicked blood in her — of that she felt sure. 
Whatever questionable secrets there might be in her past, 
Molly had been more sinned against than sinning; she had 
not deliberately done wrong : everybody who knew her must 
know that. 

When Mrs. Mirfield had acted so promptly upon Molly’s 
advice to ask her questions of Lord Netley himself she 
scarcely intended to carry the thing through there and 
then ; but her temper carried her a little beyond herself, 
and she had sent her name in to his lordship, by the servant 
she found waiting in the hall, before she quite realized to 
what she was committing herself. 

It was the first time for many a year that she had called 
individually on her brother-in-law; their dislike was quite 
mutual ; perhaps hers was even a little the stronger of the 
two, because she did not let any of it off in open abuse as 
he did. 

On this occasion he received her with a politeness which 
set her inwardly shaking. He was awfully bent and feeble, 
she saw at a glance ; but his eye was as steady as ever, and, 
judging him by the past, she expected very little real 
amiability from him when he started an interview with an 
extra touch of politeness. 

“ Quite an unusual honor,” he said quietly, when Parker 
had set her a chair facing his master. “ It must be busi- 
ness of vast importance that has induced you to bestow this 
rare pleasure upon me. Parker, you may go. Mrs. Mir- 
field has not called on me to discuss my failing health, nor 
the weather, nor yet the crops; this is an interview with 
a special purpose — a purpose at which we shall arrive more 
speedily if left to ourselves. And now, madam, what is 
it?” he asked, looking straight at her, as the door closed 
on the retiring Parker. “ Has that admirable son of yours 


86 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


been adding fresli laurels to the family renown? Do you 
want me to use my influence again to save him from a jail? 
Is it any fresh disgrace? 

The attack on her son roused up her spirit as probably 
nothing else would have done. 

“If it is a fresh disgrace,” she exclaimed, with sudden 
vehemence, “ it comes nearer home to you than George’s 
doings could. If it is a disgrace, it is one you have 
brought on yourself , in your eagerness to shut your brother’s 
son out of the family, in your hurry to acknowledge any 
connection, however low and shameless, who would help 
you to keep him there.” 

It was over thirty years since the Honorable George Mir- 
field had married Alice Borthwicke to save himself from 
the difficulties brought about by his inveterate gambling — 
a vice inherited by his son — and in all those thirty years 
Mrs. George Mirfield had never ventured to say out what 
was in her mind to her imperious brother-in-law as she had 
said it now. It surprised him a little, but it in no way 
angered him ; real anger was rare with him. 

“My good creature,” he said, with a gentle condescen- 
sion which galled her almost beyond endurance, “ you will 
please remember that the lady you are calling foul names 
is my daughter-in-law. My son wiped out her past when 
he married her.” 

“ But did he marry her? Are you sure she was his wife? 
Do you know what people are saying? They are hinting 
that it was only the usual sort of thing after all, that ” 

“Pooh, pooh!” interposed his lordship, with a slight 
wave of his hand, as if he had brushed away a harmless 
insect, “ much envy has made you mad, my dear lady. 
You have no conception what poor folly you are talking. 
Do you imagine I should lay myself open to a thing of that 
kind? You may tell your friends and gossips that Lord 
Netley knew quite well what he was doing when he invited 
his grandson to make his home at Netley Fallow. Not 
even my abhorrence for your son, Mrs. George Mirfield, 
would have induced me to open my doors to my son’s mis- 
tress and his bastard. They are what 'they profess to be, 
you may take my word for that.” 

She accepted her defeat with sullen submission. She 


“she’s not everything she should be.” 87 


rose and turned toward the door, and stopped suddenly 
as the recollection of Lessman’s story came to her again. 
Those words she had overheard ; there must be some mean- 
ing to them. 

“I wish you would give me the name of the church 
where the marriage took place,” she said. “ It would stop 
a lot of gossip. ’* 

Apparently he saw the force of this remark, for he gave 
the address without hesitation. 

“ St. Margaret’s in the Meadows, Southwark. Eather 
incongruous it sounds nowadays, but I suppose there were 
meadows there when the church was built.” 

“ I suppose so,” she answered lamely, and turned to go. 

But he held out his hand. 

“Shake hands, Mrs. Mirfield,” he said; “your disap- 
pointment over this business is natural enough ; there is 
no reason why we should nourish ill-will over it. I have 
had enough of dissensions in my life. Perhaps it is a sign 
of approaching infirmity, but I am beginning to wish for 
peace at last. Shake hands, and accept the inevitable as 
pleasantly as you can.” 

Mrs. Mirfield did as she was bid as graciously as she 
could, though graciousness could hardly be counted among 
her strong points ; and, indeed, she was too thoroughly beat- 
en just then to appear to even as much advantage as usual. 

“My ideas are all upside down,” she said to Lessman, 
when she got upstairs, for she felt it necessary to refresh 
her drooping courage by another chat with her co-conspira- 
tor. “ There can be nothing wrong with the marriage 
itself; of that I feel certain from the earl’s manner. So 
what in the world could she have meant about the child’s 
legal rights, and about me finding out the truth?” 

“You take my advice, Mrs. Mirfield,” said Lessman, 
with the air of an oracle, “ and don’t be driven off having 
a look at the certificate yourself. What it is I can’t take 
on myself to say, but there is something wrong somewhere, 
T’d lay any money. That Mrs. Arthur ain’t everything 
she should be, or she wouldn’t have gone on with Mr. 
Garth as she did this morning.” 

All of which Mrs. Mirfield felt quite as forcibly as Less 
man, and yet what could she do? 


88 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


She could get the copy of the marriage certificate cer- 
tainly, and she did, and found herself just where she was 
before. Whatever the foul mark was against Mrs. Arthur, 
there was no sign of it on the certificate of her marriage 
with Lord Netley’s son. 


CHAPTEE VIII. 

ABNEY GAKTH CABBIES OUT HIS PBOMISE. 

The heat in the London streets was stifling this breath- 
less August evening In the narrow courts and alleys it 
must have been intolerable. Even in the respectable width 
of the Marylebone Eoad, down wh^’ch Abney Garth was 
speeding in a quick, smooth-running hansom, Ihe air met 
one in hot, lifeless pulfs from the corners of the side streets 
— puffs which told their own story of the exhausted stagna- 
tion of the atmosphere in the places they came from. 

Everybody looked done up with the heat, from the weary 
people dragging their feet along the blistering sidewalks, 
after their long hours of work, to the fagged physician in 
his easy carriage, rolling home to his excellent dinner after 
the well-paid labors of the day ; and Abney Garth, though 
he had not been in the vitiated town atmosphere long 
enough to get thoroughly enervated, was looking as done 
up and fagged as anybody. But the cause of his worn, 
harassed look possibly came from within rather than 
without, for Abney was worrying himself into a positive 
fever over his coming interview with Mrs. Marston. 

What if she should refuse to fall in with the plans he 
had made for her? What if she chose, in spite of his 
efforts to prevent it, to bring her case before the people at 
Netley Fallow? 

From what he had seen of her, he lid not think she was 
likely to make herself obnoxious. But still, one could 
hardly count with certainty on what a woman in her un- 
happy position would do ; and if she was not satisfied with 
the arrangement he had made for her future comfort — if, 
in short, she had ambitious dreams of a life of idle ease, 
dependent on the generous bounty of the Mirfields, he 


ABNEY GARTH CARRIES OUT HIS PROMISE. 89 

hardly saw how he was to prevent the whole truth of Mir- 
field’s faithlessness from reaching his wife’s ears; and at 
the thought of what the discovery would mean for her a 
groan rose from his all-enduring, faithful heart. At the 
expense of his whole life’s ambition, at the cost of the en- 
tire annual income he received from Lord Netley, this 
woman’s existence must be kept a secret, and things at 
the Fallow must not be shaken out of their present state 
of calm. 

All this was in his mind as he drove from King’s Cross 
to Bayswater, through the close heat and dust of an August 
evening in London. But before he had been five minutes 
in the presence of the lady he had travelled from York- 
shire to see, his worry and anxiety had taken an entirely 
new direction. He found that, instead of being incon- 
venienced by the exorbitancy of her claims, his only trou- 
ble would lie in inducing her to accept anything; this 
disinclination extending even to his help in obtaining 
employment. 

He saw how heavily this lonely fortnight had pressed 
upon her ; her eyelids were so swollen that her eyes looked 
half their natural size, and her cheeks had fallen in and 
so altered the shape of her face that he could hardly recog- 
nize the pretty little creature he had left behind him on 
the day of Mirfield’s death. He felt a sudden compunction 
as he thought of the solitary, silent hours of grief she had 
gone through, and remembered that they had been of 
his arranging. 

“ This lonely fortnight has been hard on you,” he said, 
“ cruelly hard. I feel that I ought not to have asked it 
of you.” 

“It has been a little hard,” she admitted. “I was 
always a bad one at putting up with pain or trouble, and 
having to keep it all to myself hasn’t made it any easier 
to bear. But we won’t talk about that now,” she added, 
with a sharp, abrupt change of manner, as her lips grew 
unsteady, “ or I shall begin the everlasting tears again, and 
I’ve cried enough to last me the rest of my life. I was so 
glad when I got your letter last night, Mr. Garth. I 
wouldn’t have broken my word to you for anything. I 
promised to keep quiet here till you came, and I’ve done 


90 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


it; but I can’t stand any more of this quietness. You 
must set me free from my promise. I want to be doing 
something for myself ; I shall get over my trouble twice as 
quick when I am busy.” 

She hurried along as if she was afraid he might want to 
interrupt her ; but he listened quietly to the end. 

“That is just what I came to see you about,” he said. 
“ Though I have not been able to get to you before, I have 
been thinking a great deal about you, and I came to the same 
conclusion — that occupation would be the very best thing 
for you.” 

“Oh, yes, the very best thing!” she repeated emphati- 
cally, and waited, seeing that he had more to say. 

“ And I even went so far as to make one or two inquiries 
on your behalf ” 

“ Oh, but,” she interposed, “ I would rather not trouble 
you any more, Mr. Garth. You have been kindness itself 
to me. Not one in a hundred, knowing the truth as you 
do” — she faltered slightly and colored as if there was an 
implied humiliation in the allusion — “ would have been as 
generous and — and considerate as you have been. And 
that is just why I don’t want to be any further bother to 
you. I shall do well enough — I got along all right before 
— before — when I had to look after myself, I mean; there’s 
no need for you to trouble yourself about me, you know.” 

He waited again quite quietly until he was sure she had 
finished her jerky nervous, flurried little sentences, keep- 
ing his eyes away from her face,- because he understood in- 
tuitively a great deal, of what she was going through. But 
he looked up when she stopped, and smiled very warmly ; 
and Abney Garth’s smile, when it did come, was very real 
and full. 

“ I am going to make a confession,” he said, with that 
full, pleasant smile lighting up his face. “ As I came here 
I was wondering what I should do with you if you were 
very rapacious in your claims ” 

“ Claims!” she put in, “ I have none!” 

“And now,” he went on, “ I am wondering instead how 
much you will allow me to do for you.” 

“ I have no claims,” she said again — “ not a shadow of a 
claim. I never had; that’s what frets me.” 


ABNEY GARTH CARRIES OUT HIS PROMISE. 91 

“Then,” he said very gently, “let me do, out of pure 
friendship for poor Mirfield, what you will not accept from 
me as a right. Let me help you to put the past behind 
you, and start afresh.” 

She hesitated just a moment, her lips twitching in a way 
that made his heart ache for her; then she lifted her hand 
and gave it to him. 

“ What do you want me to do?” she asked, and he knew 
by her tone that she would do it, however uncongenial it 
might be. 

“ I have a letter here from a lady whom I knew ten years 
ago, when I was knocking about London, a lad with literary 
inclinations. She is a novelist — a very successful one, too ; 
her name in private life is Mrs. Benyon. Well, I ven- 
tured to write to her about you — mentioning no names, of 
course — and she answered by return of post. I will read 
you what she says; 

“ ‘I have been looking out for an amanuensis and reader 
for the past three months, and have not found one yet to 
my liking. Do you think the lady you wrote about would 
care to try her hand at the job? So long as she writes a 
good hand, reads well, and has not an unpleasant voice, I 
should make no objection to heron the ground of her past. 
If we could know the real^ the actual past of quite half of 
our acquaintances, would they come through the ordeal 
with cleaner records than this ill-used young woman, think 
you ? I doubt it ! To me it seems that nowadays the one 
unpardonable sin is, to be found out. Send your unhappy 
little friend to see me — I will never so much as remember 
that she has a past — and if there is any touch of congenial- 
ity in our natures we may spend Tuany pleasant and profit- 
able years in one another’s society. ’ 

“ She is a good woman,” said Garth, as he folded up the 
letter. “ She does not pose as being good — she even takes 
a delight sometimes in shocking the too tender prejudices 
of those who do; but, with all her heedlessness of the 
world’s opinions, she has more real charity in her heart, 
and does more real good in her quiet way, than half the 
professed lady philanthropists in London. Will you go 
to her?” 


92 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


There was a little silence before the answer came. 

“Yes, I will go. I’m afraid she won’t like me, and 
perhaps I shan’t like the work, but I will go and do my 
best. When such people as you and her trouble yourselves 
to think about a woman in my position it’s not likely I 
should be such an ungrateful fool as to throw your good- 
ness back in your faces. Give me the address, and the 
right time to call, and I’ll' go, and try honestly to carry 
out your wishes. If I break down you may be sure it 
won’t be for want of will, and in any case you may rest 
contented that I won’t be any further trouble to you.’* 

“ Time enough to talk about that when this plan has 
failed,” said Abney, writing the address and handing it to 
her. “ I don’t believe you will fail ; I believe you and 
Mrs. Benyon will hit it off exactly. I have only one more 
thing to ask of you — that under no circumstances whatever 
will you be tempted to allude by name to any member of 
Lord Netley’s family.” 

“ Can you think it ! I shall try to do as you said — put 
the past behind me. I wonder if anybody ever does really 
do that! Hardly, I’m afraid.” 

And as Abney Garth drove back to his hotel he found 
himself repeating her sad little “ Hardly, I’m afraid !” with 
a prophetic feeling which he would fain have put from 
him if he could. 

And yet he slept better that night than he had done 
since this worry had first fallen upon him. This settlement 
of Mrs. Marston’s immediate future had eased his mind 
of some of its weight. 

Those words of poor Mirfield^s, “ The greatest wrong a 
man can put on an innocent woman I’ve put, and I look 
to you to see that it doesn’t bear more heavily on her than is 
possible after I’m gone,” had lost most of their trouble 
for him now. 

To the very best of his ability he had seen that Mir- 
field’s wrong-doing did not bear heavily on the head of his 
innocent victim, and he felt that all he had done had been 
for the best. 

Nobody was wronged by the suppression of certain facts, 
Lord Netley was saved yet another humiliation at the 
hands of the younger members of his family, and Lady 


MRS. GEORGE MIRFIELD MAKES, ETC. 93 

Mirfield was spared the knowledge of much that would have 
been as the bitterness of death to her. 

“And this of itself,” he admitted, as he dropped off to 
sleep — “ this of itself would have induced me to go through 
twice as much lying and scheming and trouble as I have 
gone through, and so what is the use of blinking my eyes 
and refusing to look the truth in the face?” 

Two days later, when the post-bag arrived at Netley 
Fallow, it brought two letters, addressed in feminine 
hands, for Abney Garth; one was signed, “Your very 
greatly obliged friend, Ernestine Benyon,” and the other, 
“Always yours gratefully, M. Marston.” 

From the relieved expression on his face as he tore them 
up it was evident that the information, they conveyed was 
of a satisfactory nature. 

So that chapter in his life was closed, most likely for 
ever. Mrs. Benyon was not a woman who jumped lightly 
at conclusions. She had good grounds for her warmly 
expressed opinions concerning her new amanuensis; the 
chances were that Mrs. Marston had found a permanent 
home, and that he would never be called upon to do any- 
thing more in the fulfilment of his promise to the dead 
man. And he drew a sigh of relief and turned his atten- 
tion to those pleasanter possibilities which the future might 
hold for him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

MRS. GEORGE MIRFIELD MAKES HER FIRST DEFINITE MOVE. 

For a whole year the world moved onward and left things 
as they were at Netley Fallow. 

And yet scarcely as they were, perhaps. Lord Netley’s 
infirmity had increased Considerably, but so gradually that 
nobody noticed or was alarmed by it. His two daughters- 
in-law, on the other hand, had grown younger in this year 
of peaceful quiet. Time had smoothed out the hollows 
and lines which grief had imprinted on their faces during 
the earlier months of their sorrow. And Abney Garth, 


94 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


too, looked less grave and less careworn than he had looked 
a twelvemonth ago. 

It had been of necessity a year of retirement, a year of 
domestic happiness for the two young mothers ; and they 
had devoted it mainly to the worship of their darlings, and 
to the steady increase of that friendship which dated its 
commencement from the moment of their first meeting. 

And all this long year the mysterious catastrophe antici- 
pated by Molly had not come to pass, and all this long year 
Lessman had watched and listened at odd corners and doors 
and windows with the most untiring assiduity, and for 
her pains was no wiser on the matter nearest her heart 
than she had been.* But she still held on manfully. That 
there was something against Mrs. Arthur she knew, and 
if patience and perseverance could find it out, it would be 
found out; and then, perhaps, that little upstart and his 
mother would have to clear out from the Fallow, and 
leave more room for those who had a better right th-ere. 

Well, August was round again, and the ladies had cast 
off their heavy crape gowns, and Molly was feeling so ridic- 
ulously young and happy that she wondered sometimes, 
when she went to her own room — after her nightly chat 
and quick, warm “ good-night” kiss to Lotte in hers — 
whether such a beautiful state of things could last. She 
was always asking herself what would happen to break up 
this happy monotony, and when at last it was broken up 
it was by something so absurdly commonplace that she 
laughed at the memory of her own tragic forebodings. 

Baby Daisy had spots. 

Amelia, Artie’s own especial attendant, came flying into 
Molly’s room one morning with Lord Mirfield, still in his 
night-gown, in her arms. 

Miss Daisy had got some spots on her arms and chest, 
and Amelia was of opinion that they were scarlet fever 
spots, or, at the very least, measles. Would Mrs. Arthur 
keep Lord Mirfield there with her until the doctor had 
been and given his opinion? 

But when the doctor came he could not give a decided 
opinion on the spots for another twenty-four hours. All 
the same he strongly advised the immediate removal of 
the little heir. 


MRS. GEORGE MIRFIELD MAKES, ETC. 95 

Lord Netley himself interviewed h^m on the subject, 
and sent for Molly to hear what he said. 

And between them it was decided that the hoy should go 
away at once by the noonday train, in his mother’s care. 

Then there set in a period of bustle and excitement ; the 
echoes of it penetrated even to his lordship’s study, and 
disturbed the studious calm of the morning hours. He 
put down his pen in the very middle of a discussion on the 
delicate difference between two words of almost the same 
meaning, always a favorite pastime with translators; put 
his pen down decisively, and asked Garth if he knew what 
time the travellers would reach Harrogate. 

“ I think we will drop work for this morning,” he said; 
“ my thoughts won’t fix themselves at all. Go to Mrs. 
Arthur, Abney, and see if you can be of any use to her 
in making her arrangements. Send Parker to read the 
newspapers to me; and, Abney, if Mrs. Arthur would like 
to have you, you might see them safely to the end of their 
journey.” 

Garth found Mrs. Arthur in her little son’s bedroom, 
superintending the packing of his wardrobe. The boy 
himself had already been sent off with Amelia to the lodge, 
to await the start there, beyond the immediate reach of 
contagion. 

Molly turned eagerly to Garth the moment he appeared. 

“ I’ve been wanting to see you,” she said. “ I was afraid 
I should have to leave without a word with you. Isn’t it 
cruel? I shall have to go without saying ‘good-by’ to 
Charlotte or poor little Daisy. She W’on’t leave the mite’s 
bedside for a moment, and she sent out word by Lessman 
that I was on no account to venture in.” 

“That she would never forgive you if you went in, 
ma’am,” corrected Lessman, going busily on with her task 
of fitting neatly folded linen into the portmanteau in front 
of her. 

“I think it would be unwise,” Garth said, and added, 
with a glance at the open door leading into the next room, 
“ I have a message from Lord Netley.” 

Molly took the hint at once, and with a final word or 
two of direction to Lessman, followed him into the day 
nursery, and closed the door behind her. 


96 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Lessman’s eyes sparkled as she glanced at the closed door. 

“ Well, this long, happy time of peace and quietness is 
broken up at last, Abney," Molly said sorrowfully. “It 
nas been so very peaceful and so very happy that I can’t 
help feeling low-spirited at the prospect of a change." 

“ But only a temporary change," he answered. “ Things 
will have returned to their old groove in a few weeks’ 
time at the farthest." 

“ Don’t you know life better than that yet?" she, asked, 
with a faint little shake of her head. “ Once disturb 
things out of their old grooves, and they never return to 
them exactly as they were before — never ! It seems strange, 
but it is true, Abney, as true as death." 

“Yes, there is something in that, I dare say," he ad- 
mitted. “ But, as far as we can foresee, there is not likely 
to be any bad results from this short separation. Staple- 
ton does not think seriously of Daisy’s illness. He has 
only advised Artie’s removal because he thinks it best to 
be on the safe side. He said so to Lord Netley after you 
had left the room. In six weeks’ time we shall be jogging 
along again, scarcely conscious that there has been any in- 
terruption to our pleasant routine." 

She smiled a slight, disbelieving smile, and he let the 
subject drop. 

“Lord Netley sent me to see if you would like me to 
come with you?" he began. 

“ Come with me?" she cried, opening her eyes wide on 
him. “ Come with me and leave Charlotte just when she 
most needs comfort and support? Oh, no, indeed, I would 
not be so cruel to you both!" 

A quick, dark-red flashed into his face, and left it again 
instantly — left it looking of an altogether different color 
to its usual healthy, clear pallor. He said nothing, but 
the pained astonishment of his whole bearing could not be 
mistaken. 

“Now I have done it!" she exclaimed, clasping her 
hands in swift penitence. “ After all these months of care 
and watchfulness I have let it out at last ! I am so sorry, 
Abney. Please don’t look so distressed about it. I could 
not help knowing it, you know." 

“ Could you not?" 


MRS. GEORGE MIRFIELD MAKES, ETC. 


97 


The inquiry came with a touch of bitterness at his own 
expense. “ Am I, after all, such a shallow, transparent fool 
that all the world sees and laughs at my folly, has seen and 
laughed at it these ten years past, in spite of my efforts to 
keep it from becoming apparent and offensive.” 

It was Molly’s turn to look troubled now, but her trouble 
did not subdue her as his did ; it made her indignant. 

“ You must be mad to talk like that !” she cried. “ Folly, 
indeed ! I should not call it a proof of folly — I call it 
very good taste. And as for its offensiveness — why, Ab- 
iiey, you have been a very Sir Galahad of delicacy.” 

“Hush!” he said harshly, “you will be overheard.” 

He walked away to the window, with his hands in his 
pockets, and it struck her with a curious little shock of 
surprise that, in all her knowledge of him, she had never 
seen him do such a thing before. It was a foolish, insig- 
nificant trifle to notice, but coming just then it seemed to 
accentuate the difference between him and other men. 
And how different he was! It seemed almost past belief 
that he should have loved a woman, and lived in constant 
intercourse with her for ten years, without betraying his 
passion by word or sign. And for these last three years 
the association had, for the better part of the time, been 
daily and hourly, and even under that test he had kept his 
secret. 

Until now she had always thought his love for Charlotte 
had been the natural outgrowth of her widowhood, and had 
wondered often at his impregnable self-control now that 
she knew that self-control was the result of ten long years 
of systematic self-restraint. She began to understand that 
to endure in silence had become a second nature to him, 
and she also began to understand his bitterness at finding 
his secret known. 

She went up behind him. With any other man she had 
ever known she would, under the same circumstances, have 
slipped her hand through his arm and pressed it confiden- 
tially while she offered her humble words of comfort ; but 
not with Abney Garth. Firm and unassailable as their 
friendship was, it had never, and never would reach that 
point where personal familiarity begins. Utterly selfless 
he could be, but not open-hearted. He was capable of 
7 


98 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


great, generous sacrifices in the cause of friendship — sacri- 
fices which not one man in a hundred would feel called 
upon to make. But his reserve would always stand between 
him and the appreciation due to his unselfishness. He 
was not a man with whom it was easy to be familiar at 
any time, and just now perhaps less than ever. It was 
something of a humiliation to find this weakness of his 
guessed at after the successful concealment of these long 
years. 

Molly felt something of this, and it checked some of her 
natural impulsiveness. She went up behind him and laid 
her hand on his coat-sleeve with a touch he was scarcely 
conscious of. 

“ Abney,” she said, “ I don’t believe there is a person in 
the wide world who guesses at your secret but me. And 
even I should not have seen how things were with you if 
she, Charlotte, had not first set me watching.” 

He turned as if she had struck him, white to the lips. 

“ She knows, then?” he asked hoarsely. 

“Oh, nOj no! I don’t mean that! I mean — oh, Abney 
Garth, why are you so stubborn in your humility? I mean 
that your ten years of silent devotion are producing their 
impression at last.” 

“My God!” he muttered, breathing hard, his dark, 
deep-set eyes searching her face almost as if he suspected 
her of trifling with him. “ But it couldn’t be, it could 
not!” he went on passionately, all his calmness carried 
away for the moment by that suggestion of hers. “ Ever 
since she was sixteen she has known me as a sort of living 
reference book ; she has grown accustomed to come to me 
in any trouble, but to her I am scarcely a man. I am a 
mere piece of furniture; I have no place in her heart; she 
does not think I have feelings like other men. God of 
Heaven, if she knew!” 

He broke off with a short, quivering laugh. 

“I tell you,” said Molly again, feeling inclined to cry 
for his sufferings, “ I tell you she does know, or she is begin- 
ning to know, she is beginning to feel. Abney, you are going 
to be so happy that it will compensate you for all you have 
gone through.” 

“No,” he answered, “ that will never be; I was not born 


MRS. GEORGE MIRFIELD MAKES, ETC. ' 99 

for happiness." He stood a second or two looking down, 
and then lifted his eyes to her, with their old steadfastness 
restored. “How did all this come about?" he asked 
quietly. “How is it we are discussing my hopeless folly 
instead of your travelling arrangements? You have some- 
how surprised me into a confession of my madness, little 
friend, but you won’t take any advantage of it, I know. If 
I ask you to promise me never to allude to this nonsense 
again, never even to look at me as if you knew of it, I 
think you will do it?" 

“ Yes, I will do whatever you ask of me — you know that. 
There is nothing that you could ask that I would refuse. 
But just one more word, Abney, before we drop the sub- 
ject — Charlotte! My first thought must be for her. 
Don’t, in your desire to immolate yourself, forget that you 
may immolate her also." 

“That is a mistake," he said, with a faint smile, as if 
the idea amused him. “ If you had seen Lady Mirfield in 
her happier time, as I have seen her, if you had even seen 
her during the two seasons of her married life in town, 
seen how brilliant and gracious she could be when she 
wished,seen how she was besieged and run after by men whose 
admiration is thought worth having, you would be amused 
yourself at the notion of her bestowing a thought upon a 
mere household drudge, her father-in-law’s amanuensis. 
Pooh! what folly to waste words on it! Mrs. Arthur, 
will you accept my services as courier for this journey to 
Harrogate? And that reminds me of an idea I had in my 
head before you startled all the common sense out of me. 
Don’t you think you had better go to Leuville instead of 
Harrogate?" 

“ To Leuville?" 

The suggestion apparently took her by surprise. 

“ Yes, I think you should go, and this may be your only 
opportunity of getting away alone." 

“ But Lord Netley?’’ 

“ Write, when you have been away a day or two, saying 
that the climate does not seem to suit the boy, and that you 
are going to give him a taste of his native air. Don’t give 
them enough warning to stop you ; start directly you have 
posted your letter, and and write again when you arrive." 


100 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

“ I suppose I ought to go,” she said, pondering over her 
words ; “ and yet it seems like daring fate to take Artie 
there.” 

” But why? There are only a few simple fishermen and 
their families in the place, as you know yourself; they are 
not likely to notice the similarity of the boys’ names.” 

“ No ; and yet — you know Abney, I am quite certain 
that, sooner or later, it will be found out that my boy is 
not Arthur Mirfield’s lawful son, and it seems to me that 
this visit to Leuville may help to hurry on the discovery.” 

“ That is only imagination. I don’t see how it can in 
any way ; and I really think you ought to take this oppor- 
tunity of getting across.” 

Yes, I suppose I ought. As you say, there is no know- 
ing when I shall get another opportunity.’ 

“ And will you have me with you to-day?” 

“ No, thank' you; it is not in the least bit necessary. I 
shall manage quite well by myself. You will send me just 
a line from day to day telling me how Daisy gets on? 
Charlotte won’t have time to think of it.” 

“Yes, I will keep you posted in all matters here. At 
any rate I will drive into York with you and see you ofi. 
Are you well on with your packing?” 

“ Yes, mine is quite finished, and Lessman had nearly 
finished Artie’s when you came up.” 

But when she went back to the next room she found that 
Lessman was just where she had left her in the packing. 

She had been fetched away, she said, and had only that 
moment got back again, but a few minutes would finish it 
now. 

Molly did not believe she had been fetched away, but 
she had no suspicion of the real cause of the delay; she 
thought it was simply another instance of Lessman ’s un- 
willingness to do anything for Artie, and let the matter 
drop without remonstrance. 

Lessman’s first action, when the portmanteau had been 
carried away and she had the room to herself, was to draw 
an old envelope and a pencil from her pocket and write 
down a few words. 

“She sha’n’t tell me I’ve made a mistake this time,” 
she muttered, as she read them over. “ I know I’ve got 


MRS. GEORGE MIRFIELD MAKES, ETC. 


101 


them word for word now, and we’ll see what Mrs. Mirfield 
makes out of them. That woman is no more the Honor- 
able Mrs. Arthur Mirfield than I am!” 

It happened, however, that it was some time after 
Molly’s departure before Lessman had an opportunity of 
imparting her new piece of information to Mrs. Mirfield. 
Daisy’s spots turned out more seriously than had been an- 
ticipated, and in the anxious days that followed there was 
no time for tale-bearing nor chatter of any kind. 

Molly and her boy had been away from the Fallow 
nearly three weeks before Daisy was so far out of danger 
that people could begin to think about anything else, and 
it was characteristic of the pertinacity of the woman that, 
when Lessman was at last able to take an evening off duty, 
she should devote it to following up her grudge against 
Lord Netley’s heir, instead of enjoying her usual two or 
three hours of Parker’s society. 

She found Mrs. Mirfield in the garden, watching the 
process of watering, and talking to the gardener. To talk 
with somebody was a necessity with the lonely woman; she 
would have stopped a tramp passing her gate rather than 
not talk at all. At the sight of Lessman coming up the 
walk her eyes brightened involuntarily. She was on 
chatting terms with most of the servants from the Fallow, 
but Lessman, because of the antagonism which they had 
in common against Mrs. Arthur, was her very especial 
crony. 

“I’ve brought something to show to you, ma’am,” the 
woman began. “ I’ve been wanting to get a quiet word 
with you for weeks past, but I could not leave the house 
while Miss Daisy was in any real danger. Yes, she is go- 
ing on nicely now, thank you, or I shouldn’t be here. Shall 
we go inside, Mrs. Mirfield? I don’t want to be seen giv- 
ing you a paper by anybody from the house. Things can’t 
go on as they’re going much longer, and when the flare-up 
comes I don’t want to be mixed up in it at all.” 

Mrs. Mirfield led the way at once to her own private sit- 
ting-room at the back of the house; in her eagerness it 
was as much as she could do to keep herself from running. 
Lessman’s manner could mean only one thing — triumph 
over Mrs. Arthur, 


102 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“You know, ma’am,” she went on, when they were 
seated close together, and at a safe distance from the door, 
“ you know you have always declared that I must have been 
mistaken about what I heard Mrs. Arthur Mirfield say to 
Mr. Garth that time, a year ago, when he was going away 
to London.” 

“ Well, how could I think anything else, Lessman ? You 
told me that she said the boy had no legal rights, and then 
I got a copy of the certificate of the marriage between her 
and my nephew to satisfy myself . I even showed it to you. 
What else could I think but that you had put a wrong 
meaning on her words, even if you had ^not mistaken the 
words themselves?” 

“Well,” said Lessman, her eyes dancing with excite- 
ment, “ it has stuck in my throat all this time that I could 
not make you believe what I said, and I have always hoped 
that I might get hold of something some day to make you 
believe. It’s turned a year since I heard that other busi- 
ness, and now at last I’ve heard something else — only this 
time I wrote it down when I heard it — I’d made up my 
mind you shouldn’t accuse me of mixing things up again. 
Will you just read what I’ve wrote on the back of that en- 
velope, and tell me if you think there can be any mistake 
about the meaning of that?” 

Mrs. Mirfield took the envelope and went over to the 
window and read out the pencilled words slowly by the 
fading light. 

“I am quite certain that, sooner or later, it will be 
found out that my boy is not Arthur Mirfield’s lawful son.” 

“You heard her say that?” she asked, going quickly 
back to the table w’hen she had read it through. “ You 
heard her yourself?” 

“ Yes, I heard her myself. Mr. Garth came up to her 
while I was packing that little upstart’s things, and they 
went into the day nursery and left me packing in the next 
room, and I don’t mind confessing that I put my ear right 
against the keyhole and listened with all my might ; and 
you mark my words, Mrs. Mirfield, there is mischief afoot 
in this stay away of hers. I could not hear all they said — 


MRS. GEORGE MIRFIELD MAKES, ETC. 103 

Mr. Garth I could hardly hear at all — but I heard enough 
to know that there is some double-dealing going on during 
her stay away from the Fallow.” 

“If I could only get at what it means,” Mrs. Mirfield 
said. “ If I only knew in what direction to look for the 
mystery.” 

“Well, I’ve tired myself out thinking about it, ”Less- 
man answered, “ and all I can think of is that Mr. Mir- 
field ’s son is dead, and this boy is some brat they have put 
in his place.” 

“Good gracious, Lessman!” 

“Yes; you see it’s this way. We know Mr. Mirfield had 
a son, and if he was living his mother would certainly have 
brought him here. Well, she hasn’t. She says herself 
that she’s brought somebody who isn’t Mr. Mirfield’s son, 
and I say she wouldn’t have done that while the real son 
was living. You may depend on it the real little heir is 
dead, and this boy is only a make-believe.” 

“ I wonder if that is really it?” Mrs. Mirfield was grow- 
ing flushed and tremulous with the agitation of the mere 
supposition. “ I wonder how I can find out?” 

“ Couldn’t you send to the place where Mrs. Arthur came 
from and find out if they lost their baby?” 

“ Yes, of course. I — I could send my son. He is 
already in France. It would not be much trouble to him, 
and he would go willingly enough when he knew what it 
was for. But, Lessman, there is one thing now that I 
can’t reconcile myself to — Mr. Garth’s share in this busi- 
ness. We don’t like one another — he’s too big by far for 
his place — and I always give him a quiet setting-down 
when I can, so it’s not likely he would be partial to me; 
but all the same I don’t think he is the kind of man to 
lend himself to a thing of this sort.” 

“ Perhaps he’d do it to keep your son out, ma’am.” 

“No, I don’t believe he would.” 

“ Well, I don’t know anything about that part of the 
business,” said Lessman. “ I don’t see much of Mr. Garth. 
Parker don’t like him, but then I see a bit through that — 
Parker’s been twice as long with Lord Netley as Mr. Garth 
has, and he’s jealous of him — that’s the truth. Mr. Garth 
seems the perfect gentleman, and Mrs. Boston she thinks 


104 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


the world of him. But still, there you are! Mrs. Arthur 
told him to his face that the boy wasn’t who he pretends 
to he, and he puts up with it and makes no sign.” 

“Yes, it is certainly very incomprehensible.” 

Mrs. Mirfield sat so long lost in thought that Lessman 
got up and prepared to go. 

“ Of course you’ll do as you think proper in the busi- 
ness,” she said. “ I brought the news to you partly because 
you didn’t believe me before, and partly because I thought 
it concerned you more than anybody else. You must use 
it or not, according to your own inclination ; it isn’t likely 
that I should do anything about it, you know.” 

“ Have you told anybody else anything about it?” asked 
Mrs. Mirfield, rousing herself with an effort. 

“No, I haven’t; not a soul, not even Parker.” 

Mrs. Mirfield was evidently quite in Lessman’s confi- 
dence. 

“ I know how things of that kind travel round, and I 
don’t want to have it traced back to me, and lose my place 
through it. It would make me wretched to have to leave 
my little darling, and I know Lady Mirfield wouldn’t take 
two thoughts to it if she heard I’d been talking about the 
private affairs of the family.” 

“ But she won’t hear; you may make yourself quite com- 
fortable about that,” Mrs. Mirfield assured her, “and I 
am very much obliged to )"OU for coming to me.” 

Lessman turned, when they had reached the door, with 
a sudden thought. 

“ You’ll copy those words down in your own handwrit- 
ing, and destroy the envelope with my name on, won’t 
you?” she said. 

And when Mrs. Mirfield had reassured her on that point 
she went, and left that lady sitting, with the envelope still 
between her fingers, in the quickly closing twilight. 

And the darkness had shut everything from her view 
before she moved. She could not quite make up her mind 
what to do. Should she write to George, who was already 
in Paris, and ask him to run up to the little fishing-village 
on the Normandy coast where most of Arthur Mirfield ’s 
married life had been passed, or should she go up to London 
herself and see her brother Clement, a retired solicitor, who 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. 105 


lived in chambers in Gray’s Inn, and talk the matter over 
with him before she took any steps in it? 

As a rule, there was no great intimacy between Clement 
and her, for Mrs. Mirfield had done her best to drop her 
own people since she became a member of Lord Netley’s 
family circle, and it was the memory of the snubbings she 
had administered to her brother in the past which made 
her hesitate about applying to him now. He would cer- 
tainly make himself very unpleasant, and accuse her of 
forgetting his very existence until she wanted something 
of him; she knew Clem’s little ways of old. And then 
perhaps he might take advantage of the opening this 
would give him and come down and make himself at home 
at Netley Lodge, and this was not to be thought of. When 
Clem was once in he was a difficult person to get out, and 
she had no ambition to see her brother’s insignificant 
figure and shabby coat become familiar objects at her 
dinner-table. 

And so her fit of consideration ended in a decision to 
write to George, although in her heart she knew that, as 
far as business matters went, Clem would inquire into 
Arthur Mirfield’s affairs, and ferret out whatever mystery 
there might be in his married life a thousand times better 
than George would — George, with his habits of easy indo- 
lence and his open admission of never doing anything that 
he could get other people to do for him. 

Having once come to the decision, she wrote the letter 
and sent it to the post at once. 

“ I shall sleep all the better,” she said, “for having made 
a definite move in the matter.” 


CHAPTEE X. 

GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. 

George Mirfield was still in those rooms au cinquihne^ 
in the Avenue Wagram, where we left him fourteen months 
ago. Let his pinches and difficulties be what they might — 
and it must be acknowledged that he contrived to get 
plenty of variety into his life, one week dining a party of 


106 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


theatrical people at the Cafe de la Paix, and the next bor- 
rowing two francs of Mme. la Concierge to pay for a 
chateau-lriand at a Duval, or an even humbler Bouillon — 
through it all he always kept faith with the agent. If he 
had a run of luck anywhere near quarter-day his first 
action was always to lodge his rent with the concierge. 

“ Who knows,” he would say to her with his usual air of 
quiet recklessness when she suggested that monsieur should 
not incommode himself by paying before the time — “ w^ho 
knows, I may not have the money again for months, and I 
can’t afford to be turned out on to the pavements. What- 
ever arrives, I must keep a hole of some sort to myself, so 
that, if the worst comes to the worst, I can make a decent 
finish of it in a place where I am known, and where there 
is somebody who will have the sense to send the news of my 
death to my mother, without boring her with any of the 
unpleasant details.” 

And Mme. la Concierge would give a puzzled stare into 
his quiet, careless face, and, after he had passed on, throw up 
her hands with an exclamation of sorrowful bewilderment. 

These English were so astounding! They talked of 
death with just as much emotion as they talked of the 
weather. When Alphonse Bremont spoke of his suicide 
he wept and tore his hair and cursed God for making his 
life so miserable that it was no longer worth having. But 
these English, they were so different! They never wept, 
and as for tearing their hair, well, it would be difficult, 
certainly — for, see you, they had not enough to lay hold of. 
But all the same she believed that Monsieur “ Mare-fee- ay ” 
meant as much, with his quietness and his tender smile, as 
ever poor Alphonse had meant, with his curses and sobs 
and shrieks. She knew these English by this time ; they 
did not exhibit their feelings as we did, but they felt as 
much — oh, quite as much! — perhaps even more. She 
comprehended their ways now — oh, perfectly! 

And so it happened that when George received his 
mother’s letter containing the suggestion that there was 
something peculiar in the past history of Arthur’s little 
son, and asking him to go to Leuville and make inquiries, 
he was still living in the same house with Mme. Koek-koek. 
He and she were still as great friends as ever, and when he 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. 107 

read his mother’s astonishing news his first thought was of 
the friendly danseuse. He had almost started to run down 
to her before he remembered that she was away at Boulogne, 
like every one else. Who that could get away from this 
infernal heat would stay in it? And yet what a waste of 
money this trip to Normandy would be! 

He looked irresolutely at the check his mother had en- 
closed for his expenses to Leuville, and his mind travelled 
instinctively in the direction of a certain quiet little house 
which lay back behind the shops in the Faubourg St. 
Honor6. As long as he had money in his pockets this 
quiet, decent-looking little house was his nightly resort. 
And here was he the owner of fifty pounds, which, with a 
few lucky deals, might in as many minutes be transformed 
into a thousand. 

Just for a second he felt inclined to put the money in 
his pocket, and devote it to his own uses. He could easily 
write to the old lady and say he had been to Leuville, and 
had found out nothing to the detriment of Mrs. Arthur or 
the boy. But some hitherto unsuspected remnant of senti- 
ment checked the project. He had given hjs mother quite 
enough trouble in the past without adding downright theft 
to his other backslidings. He would go to Leuville to 
satisfy her. A whilf of sea air would do him good too; 
and at the thought of the pure salt wind blowing on his 
face it occurred to him that he had been feeling unusually 
dull and heavy and lifeless lately, and that this whilf of 
cool air was just what he had been wanting. So he would 
be doing good all round to go. 

Having once made up his mind, a sudden fierce hatred 
for the broiling boulevards, for their parched trees, their 
burning pavements, their omnipresent odors, their dead, 
lifeless atmosphere, seized upon him and set him to work 
upon his preparations at once. After having lived through 
the horrors of two consecutive Parisian summers he sud- 
denly felt that another night in that used-up, vitiated air 
would finish him off for good, that he must get out of it 
before the finish of another day. 

He sent out for a time-table, pitched a change of clothes 
into a handbag, and, changing his check on his way to 
the station, caught the next train going north. 


108 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


As the sun went down that evening he was standing at 
the wide-open door of the one little inn of Leuville, watch- 
ing the crimson deepen, shade by shade, in the hundreds 
of tiny pools left by the receding tide on the shallow beach 
across the road, and wondering a little why, for the first 
time in his life, he found that the quiet of the place soothed 
instead of bored him. Was he, he asked of himself, with 
^ a touch of regret, at twenty-eight, already getting old? 
Had he already, at an age when most men were only at the 
opening of their careers, lived the best part of his life? 
Was he on the verge of fogydom? Had he arrived at the 
epoch of existence in which people are contented to squat 
in the shade at the side of the road and watch the younger 
and the more energetic pushing along toward their dis- 
tant goals, in the full heat and sunshine of life’s contest? 

He sighed at the thought. If he was losing his taste 
for excitement, there was not much left for him, he told 
himself — nothing else had given him a moment’s enjoyment 
since he made such a mess of things five years ago. Life 
would be a very empty, neutral-tinted business for him 
without those curious little instants of time at the roulette- 
table, when the ball was slowing down and his whole being 
seemed concentrated into one throb of anticipation as it 
rolled smoothly off the black and, pausing on the red, saved 
him from temporary indigence — or perhaps it was the other 
way about, and he found himself stranded, without the 
money to pay his cab-fare home. All the same the throb 
of anticipation was worth having, or had been until now. 
It was with a sensation that was very like fright that he 
found himself enjoying the quiet of this soft September 
evening and experiencing his first touch of distaste for the 
stifling atmosphere and unholy associations of the roulette- 
table. If this last pleasure went from him, what was there 
left? 

The landlord, coming up behind him, roused him from 
his dismal touch of sentiment. 

“Monsieur is admiring our couclier-du-soliel^** he said 
politely. “ Leuville is noted for its fine sunsets, and from 
nowhere is it seen better, when the tide is low, than from 
this doorway. See, monsieur, how each little lake becomes 
a sunset in itself for the moment! Ten minutes later and 
all the color, so vivid, will have disappeared, and the cold. 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. 109 


pale shore will look like a hearth cumbered with the ashes 
of the over-night fire, or like a body from which all the 
warmth and color has departed — the dead body of the day 
that is gone.” 

“ Or like a life that is over and done with, yet still con- 
tinues to exist when it has no longer any joy in existence,” 
said George, carrying on the allegory out of his own 
thoughts. “ Bon Dieu^ monsieur,” he broke off, with grim 
amusement, “ but you are a comrade of the most gay ! A 
man comes here because he is enervated and doleful, and 
you go to rejoice him with your little histories of cold 
hearths and days that are dead.” 

“But monsieur is right!” cried the other, all gayetyand 
animation in a moment. “ I am a miserable to afflict mon- 
sieur with my sad little fancies. One gets like that some- 
times by the sea ; it has so many poor little stories to tell 
itself that one takes the habit from it. Monsieur has not 
already dined? Thegood-wife is making ready a dinner of 
the most recherche for monsieur, and monsieur will take a 
bottle of good wine? Monsieur will no longer make him- 
self enerve when he shall have drunk a bottle of my good 
wine.” 

“ Yes, I will have a bottle of your best, and you shall 
help me to drink it, monsieur,” said George; “ and we will 
leave the day to finish dying by itself. Madame tells me 
you have no private parlors; that one must eat in the 
public dining-room. So much the better ; I am not in the 
mood for solitude. This public room, where is it?” 

It was a long, narrow, low-ceiled, stone-floored room, fur- 
nished with benches and plank tables; but there were big 
windows looking across the street to the open sea, and 
George’s table had been spread with a clean white cloth 
near one of these, through which the invigorating air was 
blowing the smell of the wet seaweed. 

“ So we have not made our adieux to the dying day after 
all,” said George, as he seated himself by the open window, 
with his back to the room, and planted his elbows on the 
table and resumed his study of the sunset. “ It is a fine 
air you have here.” 

“ Magnificent ! Monsieur will find himself so exhilarated 
in a day or two that he will laugh and sing for no reason 
whatever.” 


110 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


George smiled at the notion, the idea of his laughing and 
singing from sheer lightness of heart struck him as some- 
thing so entirely out of the range of probability. 

“ If I stay as long,” he said. “ I have not come to Leu- 
ville with the intention of making any stay.” 

“ That is monsieur’s misfortune, then. But perhaps it 
will happen as it did before. An Englishman came here 
three summers ago, en passant^ as monsieur has done, and 
he stayed two years — until his death, in fact.” 

“Ah, yes?” said George, with lazy interest. No doubt 
this was poor old Arthur. Now was his opportunity to 
ask one or two point-blank questions about this Englishman 
and his family, and get the business he had come upon over 
at once. 

But he did not do it. He was feeling lazy after his 
hot railway ride, and disinclined for the least exertion of 
any kind, and more especially disinclined for just this one 
particular exertion. He had no love for the task his 
mother had laid upon him. He did not like the idea of 
poking and prying into his dead cousin’s past, and the 
nearer the view he got of it the stronger his dislike grew. 
Such information as came to him without effort of his own 
he would send to her, but he hardly felt like taking any 
active steps toward unearthing little particulars which 
Arthur had chosen to keep concealed. 

“And so that other Englishman died here,” he said, 
when the landlord came in again presently with the wine 
and a basin of soup. The color in the pools across the 
road was getting very dim now, but there w^ere two or three 
young peasant women sitting on the end of the sea-wall, 
nearly opposite the inn, and he was idly interested in the 
curves of their ankles, as seen above their huge sabots, so 
that perhaps, on the whole, the outlook had not lost in 
attractiveness. “ You know, monsieur, that does not say 
much for your vaunted air, and it does not encourage me 
to make a long visit.” 

3Iais, mo7i Dieul it was not Leuville that killed him,” 
cried the landlord, his small wrinkled face alight with in- 
dignation at the injustice of the supposition. “ When he 
came here he was already ill. The air here kept him alive 
a year longer than he would have lived anywhere else.” 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. Ill 

Did he stay here with you?” asked George, again, really 
more because it was his turn to speak than from any inter- 
est he took in the answer. 

“ But, no. He lived with his wife in a little villa — La 
Bosquet it was called, because of the beauty of its shrubs 
and trees — half- way up the road leading to the cimetiere Qn 
the top of the rock, where they buried him. Ah, mon- 
sieur, it was a sad thing, his death! The poor little 
madame, his wife, was so heart-broken, and she was so 
young and fragile to be left without a protector. Every- 
body here rejoiced themselves when a friend came to fetch 
her away to live with her husband’s family. A tall, ma- 
jestic man this friend was, with gray hair, and the calm, 
quiet manner of the English, but a man to be trusted always 
— one could see that at a glance.” 

Abney Garth beyond a doubt. George recognized the 
portrait instantly. 

“ What was he like— the Englishman who died?”he asked. 

“ A handsome man — oh, certainly a handsome man — 
with eyes as blue as those in monsieur’s own head. But 
taller than monsieur, and just such a carrure as monsieur, 
for truly monsieur had a carrure of the most wonderful for 
his height.” 

George set his wide shoulders back (is there a man in 
the world who is not proud of the possession of a broad 
pair of shoulders?) and smiled at the little Frenchman’s 
open admiration. 

“ Yes,” he said, “another three inches in height and I 
should have been a well-made man; as it is, what I lack 
in height I make up in muscle. When I was in the army 
I was the strongest man in the regiment at lifting or carry- 
ing.” 

“ Ah, monsieur has been in the service, then? I thought 
I recognized the air militaire. Monsieur has been in the 
cavalry, if I mistake not?” 

“ Yes, in the hussars. And you? You have served?” 

“But, yes, monsieur; I was in the Sedan catastrophe,” 
came the subdued answer. 

“Ah, a bad affair that!” said George, with a touch of 
sympathy, which the other was keen to note and appre- 
ciate; “ one of the big blunders of the world.” 


112 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ Monsieur has reason,” was the quiet reply, hut the sub- 
ject was evidently a sore one. 

His vivacity had received a temporary check, and he 
took the first excuse that offered for getting out of the 
room, leaving George alone in the summer twilight. 

But he was not lonely long. 

Presently there came into view, round the end of the 
sea-wall where the peasant women were dangling their 
legs, an object which made George open his eyes in involun- 
tary astonishment. He had believed himself to be the 
only shred of civilization in the place ; and yet here was a 
lady, small and dainty in figure, with a clear, transparent 
pale skin, nut-brown hair, wind-ruffled and wavy, and ten- 
der blue-gray eyes, picking her way delicately across the 
pools, just beyond the roadway, with her white gown 
gathered up carefully in her tan-gloved hand. 

Next behind her came an English nurse, with a hoy 
of three or four perched upon her shoulder, put there 
apparently to keep him out of the slush of the wet shore. 

“By Jove!” said George softly, “I wonder who she is, 
and what she’s doing in this out-of-the-way hole? She’s 
English, and a good specimen too! It’s a treat to see a 
woman put her feet down properly, after the mincing 
pinickity pavement trot of the Parisiennes.” 

The lady was laughing, as she looked at the nurse’s shoes 
and then at her own. 

“We would not have come if I had known it would he 
so wet,” she was saying, and George was struck with the 
sweetness of her voice and the clear, happy ring of her 
laugh. 

In Paris the chances are that he would have passed her 
by without a second glance; hut here, by the side of those 
brown peasant women, with their monstrous sabots, their 
strident voices, and their abnormal breadth of hip, this 
dainty, fair, sweet- voiced little lady gained in attractiveness 
by force of contrast. At any rate that was how he ac- 
counted to himself for the sudden unusual interest he felt 
in her. 

He found himself listening almost eagerly for her next 
words, and he was not at all conscious of the gross absurd- 
ity of the situation, when he experienced a sensation of 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. 113 


disappointment on hearing the boy shriek out, Muvver, 
muvver !” 

When the servant brought in his fricassee presently he 
asked a question or two ; but the girl was new to the place, 
and knew nothing except that the lady was staying at La 
Bosquet, and went by the name of Madame la Bosquet 
among the village people. 

The three peasant women had risen at her approach, and 
were standing with arms akimbo, laughing at her energetic 
attempts to make herself understood. But none of them 
laughed more heartily than she did herself at her droll 
blunders, and none of them looked better pleased than she 
when she succeeded in saying something as they wished it 
said. 

George watched the scene with considerable amuse- 
ment. 

How spirituelle her pure, bright little face looked among 
their big sun-browned countenances, and what a delectable 
accent she would get if she went on taking lessons in con- 
versational French from these Normandy fishermen’s wives. 
It occurred to him presently that it would only be an act 
of Christian charity to go and help out her limited vocab- 
ulary, and he rose and passed out of the window, leaving 
his excellent dinner in tlie middle of an unfinished course. 

The little lady was just showing her wet shoes and stock- 
ings, and explaining to her sympathetic audience how she 
had ventured to take a short cut across the shore, when 
she heard a footstep, and, turning, saw George sauntering 
negligently across the road, hatless, fair haired, broad- 
shouldered, tweed-clad, hands in pockets — English all 
over. 

George saw her take him in with a startled, comprehen- 
sive glance which looked curiously like dismay. The next 
instant she had scattered a shower of hurried “ Bon soirs ” 
among her friends, and was speeding away up the hill, 
with the nurse close at her heels, as if she were making 
her escape from a pursuing enemy. 

He laughed good-humoredly, and entered into conversa- 
tion with the ladies of the sabots, who were nothing loth, 
and in the next ten minutes he learned all their names, 
the number, names, and ages of their children, and their 
8 


114 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


husbands’ callings; but on the subject of Mme. la Bosquet 
he learned nothing at all, and he was too old a hand to lay 
himself open to remark by putting a direct question. 

He wandered off presently, hatless as he was, and strolled 
across the pool-dappled sands to the edge of the still reced- 
ing tide, and stood there, with the salt breeze playing 
about his temples and the waves swishing up and down 
at his feet, till the twilight had changed to night and the 
stars began to throw quivering reflections on the throbbing 
blackness of the waters. 

He was scarcely thinking at all. The air was inflnitely 
refreshing, and the stillness so soothing that he forgot his 
avowed distaste for solitude, and thought of nothing but 
the pure physical enjoyment of the moment. 

But he laughed at himself when, his flt of stillness over, 
he turned back toward the inn. 

“ If little Fauvelle could have seen him standing there, 
like a moonstruck fool, gazing away over the sea,” was 
his thought. 

The next morning was sunshiny, but breezy and fresh. 

Directly after his coffee George went across and sat on 
the end of the sea-wall, with a yellow-backed novel. But 
he did not do much reading; he was too intent upon watch- 
ing the white hill road that led up toward La Bosquet, and 
he watched in vain. 

He could only see the road half-way up, because of a 
curve it took toward the edge of the cliff, but he could see 
the shrubs and trees which surrounded the little house on 
the hillside. He could see one white corner of the house 
itself, peeping between the greenery, and also a small 
creeper-covered arbor, perched quite close to the edge of 
the cliff in the garden behind the house. 

In the shadow of this arbor he was almost sure he saw a 
black figure, seated as if at work; but at that distance he 
was not able to make out who it was. He saw the child 
running about the paths, and even heard his shrill childish 
laughter once or twice in the peaceful quietness of the 
place, for the Leuville people were all shut up in their 
closed houses at this time of day. 

And so the morning wore away to midday, and George 
went in to breakfast with an astonishing appetite. 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. 115 


Monsieur Lorton appeared again at breakfast time, as 
polite, as vivacious, as sentimental as ever. 

Would monsieur not like to see something of the sur- 
rounding country ? He had been thinking of monsieur’s 
ennui, and he had sent to a cousin of his, who kept a farm 
at some little distance, and borrowed a horse for mon- 
sieur. Cavalry officers had a passion for riding. Monsieur 
would accept this little attention at his hands if only be- 
cause they were brothers-in-arms. 

And George accepted, though he would rather have 
taken his book across the road again and resumed his ob- 
servation of the garden at La Bosquet ; but it was easier 
to say yes than no, so he gave up his promised afternoon 
of idling and went. 

As for the business he had come upon, that could wait. 
A day or two could make no dilference one way or the other, 
and perhaps in the mean time he should stumble across 
some of those details of Arthur’s married life after which 
his mother’s soul hankered. Meanwhile his time was not 
hanging at all heavily on his hands, and the quiet and the 
fine air was quite setting him up. 

The promised mount turned out a rather decent gray 
cob, fresh for want of exercise, and as full of play as a 
kitten. 

Monsieur Lorton came out, all pride and delight to have 
obtained this pleasure for his guest, and watched the start. 

If monsieur took the hill road past the cemetery he 
would reach the high plains, where there was excellent 
galloping for a stretch of five or six miles. And monsieur 
could tie Napoleon up at the gate of the cemetery, on his 
way back, and go in and see the grave of his countryman, 
if he was so inclined. 

George took to this idea. He would certainly take a 
look at his cousin’s resting-place; it gave him a reason for 
his ride, and satisfied his not very troublesome conscience. 
He should be doing his duty to his mother, and following 
his own inclination at the same time. 

He passed La Bosquet on his way up, but saw nothiug but 
the house itself. All the shutters facing toward the road 
were closed against the afternoon sun, aud the place looked 
forlorn and deserted, and solitary in the extreme, standing 


116 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


there, white and still, in the blazing heat. The house was 
a disappointment on this side; all the prettiness evidently 
was at the back, facing toward the cliff. 

George wondered if everybody was asleep inside, hut 
Napoleon did not give him much time to wonder about 
anything. The air was exhilarating up there, and the 
light-hearted animal claimed most of his rider’s attention. 
When they got to the top of the hill George let him go, 
and they stretched away past the little cemetery and along 
the cliff top, with the west wind full in their faces, until 
the gay little beast began to slow down of his own accord. 

It was grand up there, with the blue sky above and the 
bluer sea below, with the soft turf under his horse’s feet, 
and nothing round him but the pure, fresh, intoxicating 
ether. The shadows were already lengthening when he 
sighted the cemetery again, on his homeward way, and 
Napoleon, still gay at heart, had yet lost the first mad 
exuberance with which he started. 

As they neared the gate of the cemetery George saw a 
female in a hat waiting there, with her back to the road. 
He grew interested. The Leuville ladies all wore white 
muslin caps. The figure was clothed in a tight-fitting 
black gown, and George was so occupied in trying to de- 
cide whether it could be the same figure he had seen last 
night in a loose white bodice that he never noticed the 
stealthy approach, along the other side of the road, of a 
small sunburnt imp in a sailor suit of brown holland. 

The diminutive creature came along with the lightness 
and caution of a Red Indian on the warpath, until he was 
about a yard in front of ^Napoleon, and then he darted 
into the road, close before the horse’s nose, and pranced 
wildly, blowing an ear-piercing tin whistle, and waving a 
fiag about twice as big as himself to and fro above his 
head. 

For an instant George’s heart was fairly in his mouth. 
Napoleon was plunging and kicking, with his head down, 
and the small fiend with the whistle and the fiag was rush- 
ing in among the brute’s pawing hoofs as if he did not un- 
derstand the existence of such a thing as fear. 

It was more than George dared to do to turn the horse 
and run for it. That little devil would certainly attack 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. 117 

him in the rear, and get a blow from his heels that would 
knock him into splinters. 

He gathered up the bridle tight in one hand, and pulling 
the horse abruptly to one side, made a big plunge down at 
the youngster’s waistband and fetched him up, sprawling, 
on to the saddle in front of him. For an instant he lay there 
kicking, on his back, with a very astonished look in his big 
gray eyes, but only for an instant. 

“ Put me up, please,” he said calmly, as soon as he could 
draw a breath. “ I can’t see nuffiuk down here. I frighted 
ve horse booflee, didn’t I?” 

“You little devil!” said George, giving him a slight 
shake where he lay, and getting Napoleon a bit in hand 
now there was no longer that distracting flag fluttering in 
front of his eyes. “ You little devil ! I’d fright you beau- 
tifully if I had anything to do with you ! Where did^ you 
spring from, you imp of evil?” 

There were two figures now hastening toward him from 
the cemetery entrance, a white one as well as a black, and 
above the white gown there was a wild-eyed, colorless little 
face, full of vivid terror. 

“ He is not hurt,” George sang out, bringing the tremb- 
ling, snorting horse to a standstill and setting the child 
up in front of him ; “ he is not even scratched, I assure you. 
Pray don’t alarm yourself.” 

“ Muvver, muvver,” screamed the boy, “ see vere Artie is! 
Did you see me fright ve horse, muvver?” 

George swung himself down, with the boy under his arm, 
and put him into his mother’s trembling embrace. 

“Naughty Artie!” she said brokenly, “such a very 
naughty Artie!” and she held him to her as if she had but 
just realized all he was to her. 

“ I suppose I ought to scold and beat him,” she went on, 
with a tremulous smile, lifting her swimming eyes to 
George’s face, “ but he is all I have in the world — and — I 
thought I had lost him. You must make allowances for a 
mother’s love.” 

“I know,” said George, looking down at her, with a 
grave smile of comprehension. “ I have gone through it 
all myself — I, too, am an only son.” 

“Then you will understand,” she said — she was trying 


118 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


very hard to control herself, but he could see how quickly 
her breath came and went between her quivering lips, and 
how convulsively her bosom rose and fell — “ you will un- 
derstand a little of my gratitude ” 

“ Oh, don’t let us go into that,” he interrupted, with a 
slight laugh. “ I was glad for once of my length of reach, 
and there’s an end of it. The little chap has got pluck 
enough for a regiment, but I should recommend you to 
keep a steady eye on him. Next time it might not end 
with a mere fright all the way round. Shall I give him a 
ride down to the gate — you’re staying at the little white 
house on the hill, aren’t you?” 

But she would not trust the boy out of her arms, and 
after a few more incoherent words of thanks she held out 
her hand in token of farewell. 

George was going their way, but he made no attempt to 
accompany them. If she had wanted his company she 
would not have given him his conge. He returned the 
warm, grateful clasp of her small fingers, and waited there 
by the roadside, with Napoleon’s bridle over his arm, 
watching them descend the hill in the rosy glow of the 
sunset. 

Through the evening stillness the nurse’s first observation 
came back to him ; 

“ It was just like the things you see done in a circus, 
ma’am. The darling would have been trampled to death 
if the gentleman hadn’t been one of the best riders in the 
world.” 

George did not follow them at once ; he strolled across the 
broad belt of turf between the road and the cliff, and stood 
there, near the edge, with Napoleon munching the grass 
contentedly at his side, and watching the sunset through till 
the end. There was no after-glow to-night; a mass of 
gray clouds rose suddenly out of the horizon and quenched 
the warmth out of the sky. But he stood on there some 
time in the gray twilight, unconscious of the sudden chill 
in the air, unconscious of all things but one — his Nemesis 
had overtaken him at last ! All at once he found himself 
wishing that he was an ordinarily respectable member of 
the community, instead of a social pariah, at whose name 
mothers with marriageable daughters shivered involuntarily 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TAKES UP THE RUNNING. 119 


and drew their flocks closer round them ; of whom even 
good-natured men spoke regretfully as of one utterly lost. 

He thought of the look in Madame la Bosquet’s eyes as 
she gave him her hand at parting. How many years was 
it since a respectable woman had given him such a frank, 
full, free glance of friendship as that? The knowledge that, 
w'hen she knew who he was, and all about him, that look 
of friendship would be changed for one of scared, shrink- 
ing distaste, gave him such a feeling of misery as he had 
not felt for many a day, and made him determine to keep 
his name a secret from her in any case. 

He laughed aloud, and called himself a few hard names, 
but he did not succeed in laughing the feeling down. He 
wondered, uncomfortably, what had got hold of him, and 
finding out all at once that he was cold, he was glad to 
break away from his own reflections with a muttered curse 
at the sudden change in the wind. 

“ I’m chilled through and famished,” he said to himself, 
as he mounted and rode off through the gathering gloom, 
“and then I’m surprised because I get a fit of the blues. 
A bottle of old Lorton’s best and a bit of fresh-caught 
turbot and I shall be as fit as a fiddle again. I’ll get away 
from the place to-morrow. I knew I should soon sicken 
of the quiet.” 

It was not until he was going to bed that he remembered 
the visit to Arthur Mirfield’s grave, which had been the 
main object of his ride past the cemetery. 

“Ah, well,” he said hypocritically, “I shan’t be able to 
get away to-morrow after all. Having come to the dreary 
place, I may as well find out what there is to find out. 
And I must take a look at the poor old lad’s resting-place.” 

And even in the privacy of his own thoughts he tried to 
pretend that the neighborhood of La Bosquet had not in- 
fluenced him in this decision. 


120 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


CHAPTER XL 

AN INTEKLUDE. 

When George woke up the next morning, his fit of the 
blues had vanished with last night’s gray clouds and chill 
wind. In all this radiant sunshine remorse and regrets 
seemed out of place, and his usual reckless habit of mind 
came back to him. 

Things should take their own course. Was he such an 
impressionable as that he could not hold a couple of con- 
versations with a pleasant-speaking little widow without 
conceiving a tragic passion for her? Stuff and nonsense! 
He would neither avoid her acquaintance nor strive after 
it. If it happened that he met her, he would leave it to 
her to speak or not as she chose, and if he did not meet 
her, he would not of a definite purpose seek after further 
intimacy. 

And yet — and yet — when he weiit up the hill to pay that 
deferred visit to Arthur Mirfield’s grave, his footsteps 
slowed down involuntarily as he neared the small, white, 
hare-looking house by the roadside, and, dodge the fact as 
he would, he knew he was disappointed when he had got 
past without interruption. 

But the next instant his steps quickened up again, as he 
caught sight of a white gown, under a white umbrella, on 
the headland above, and in the pleasure of the moment he 
quite forgot his decorous decision to leave it to her to make 
the first advance toward any further intercourse. 

She was sitting on the grass, with her face toward the 
sea, and the child was asleep at her side, with his bright 
brown curls pillowed on her knee. She did not see George 
coming until he was close behind her, but when she turned 
and recognized the muscular, thick-set figure; in light 
tweed coming across the grass toward her, such a gladness 
flashed into her eyes that his heart grew warm within him. 

“ I am so pleased to see you,” she said, putting her hand 
out to him in eager friendliness. “ I was so afraid you 
might leave this lonely little place without our meeting 


AN INTERLUDE. 


121 


again, and I felt that I had not half made you understand 
how much I owed to you 

“ Oh, please don’t let us allude to that stale business 
again!” cried George. “I did nothing more yesterday 
than I’ve done scores of times before for my own amuse- 
ment. And it hurts my vanity, too, don’t you see. I would 
far rather that you were glad to see me because you thought 
I was a pleasant fellow than from any sense of compulsory 
gratitude for a fancied obligation. I hope you have not 
suffered from the fright that youngster gave you yester- 
day?” 

She gave way to his wish at once, and since she was not 
able to express her sense of indebtedness in words, it showed 
itself in her manner, in the warm liking of her glance, and 
the quick, soft responsiveness of her replies. And under this 
delightful encouragement George opened out in a manner 
that he was astonished at himself. 

“ When I first saw you on the beach the night before last 
I thought you were an apparition,” he told her. “ I never 
expected to find a civilized being in the place. When my 
mother asked me to come here I felt horribly ill-treated ; 
and. then, when I saw you picking your way among the 
pools down yonder, with the crimson glory of the sunset 
all about you, I thought, Just for a minute, that you had 
been sent here especially on my behalf, to reward me for 
doing my duty to the old lady.” 

“And what disillusioned you?” she asked gayly. 

“Well,” he said audaciously, “I’m not sure that I am 
disillusioned — yet. ” 

“ Oh, but I think you are, though,” she persisted with a 
quiet little smile. “ You said you only thought it ‘just 
for a minute,’ you know.” 

He laughed lazily, as if her keenness amused him. 

“ So I did. Well, I suppose I found out my mistake 
when this young man came into view, round the corner 
of the sea-wall, and called you ‘mother.’ You see, I 
thought that, with such a claimant as that on your affec* 
tions, there was in all probability another — I mean — you 
looked such a child — it never occurred to me — that is — 
well,” he said desperately, fetching himself out of his fix with 
an effort, “I mean just this, that it was a surprise to me 


122 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


yesterday when yon spoke of the little one being all you had 
to love or care for.” 

“I see; you had not thought of my being a widow.” 
She spoke with perfect self-possession, without a shade of 
flippancy in her manner. She had lost sight of the hypo- 
thesis upon which the conversation had started, and was 
now only bent upon giving him information. “ I had the 
great misfortune to lose my husband a little over a year 
ago, when I had been only married three years, and this 
is the first time I have been away from his father’s house 
since his death. I find a great difference travelling alone.” 

“Naturally,” George answered, with grave politeness. 
“ I think a lady is nearly always at a disadvantage by 
herself at such times, especially,” he added, with a touch 
of mischief in his smile, “ when she has only a limited 
knowledge of the language of the country she is in.” 

She laughed up at him in candid enjoyment of the joke 
against herself. 

“ You are making fun of my talk with the village women 
the other evening. You say you took me for an appari- 
tion. I assure you I took you for a ghost, when you made 
your sudden appearance from nowhere in particular in 
that startling manner.” 

“ I had been listening to your struggles with the idiom 
for some minutes, inside the window of the inn. I won- 
der what made you run away in such a hurry when you 
saw me?” 

“ Oh, well,” she said, speaking in the manner of a person 
who does not choose to give the real reason of a thing, and 
so puts a supposititious case, “ it is just possible, you know, 
that my conceit took fright at the idea of your overhearing 
my school-girl French. Like you, I never expected to 
meet a civilized creature in this little place.” 

“ It was quite a mutual surprise, then. I came on a little 
piece of family business, and I confess I came very unwil- 
lingly, only my mother had set her heart on it, and so there 
was nothing for it but to pack up and start.” 

The blue-gray eyes gave him a look of very undiluted ap- 
proval. Filial duty was evidently the chief of all the 
cardinal virtues with her just now. He interpreted the 
look aright and tried to set her straight. 


AN INTERLUDE. 


123 




“ You mustn’t run away with the idea that I am the 
model of all that a son should he, though,” he went on. 
“ The fact is that it is such a long time since I did any- 
thing to oblige my mother that I thought I would take the 
opportunity when it offered, especially when I had 
nothing else particular to do. I was glad to be able to 
please her for once, for I’ve given the old lady a good 
many sorrowful hours in my time. I hope this little lad 
will never make your heart ache as I — I beg your pardon,” 
he broke off, with a careless laugh. “ Upon my word, I 
apologise very humbly for boring you with my little pecca- 
dilloes. Do you know, I believe there is something in the 
air of this place that induces serious thought. I have 
never been so nearly repentant as since I came here. A 
month of Leuvilleand I should be a reformed character.” 

But though he outwardly laughed off the impulse to be 
confidential, it remained with him all the same. He was 
possessed by a longing to tell this little creature with the 
tender eyes and the mobile, sympathetic lips all about that 
unfortunate past of his. It was a queer thing for this idea 
to come to him all of a sudden, for, as a rule, his past was 
the last thing in the world he thought of dragging into the 
conversation. God knew there was nothing in it that he 
could take pleasure in discussing. 

“ You would take the air of Leuville for diseases of the 
soul as one takes the waters of other places for physical 
ailments,” said Mme. la Bosquet, with gentle gayety. 

“Would to God that were possible!” he exclaimed, turn- 
ing his face suddenly seaward, and there was such an un- 
mistakable touch of real feeling in his manner that she in 
turn grew grave and sorry. 

“ I think there are very few of us who would not wish 
to come to Leuville if it really had that power,” she said 
very quietly. “ It must be a very exceptional person who 
has not done many things they would wish undone.” 

He brought his glance back to her face. 

“ I should hardly think you had done many things of that 
kind. Judging by your face, I should say your soul was as 
free from remorse as most people’s.” 

She fiushed at the words — a cruel fiush that seemed to 
scorch her skin with its fierce heat. 


124 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“Ah, but one must not judge by a face,” she cried 
quickly, and then laughed and looked at him haK-shamedly. 
“ See how my face convicts me now,” she said. “ Does 
that guilty blush look like a conscience at rest?” 

“ But you women have such tender consciences,” he 
answered her. “ If I had nothing more terrible to repent 
of than you — well, my mother would be a happier woman, 
I expect.” 

“ What a serious conversation we are holding!” she said, 
with an effort at a lighter n anner. ‘ We seem to be play- 
ing the part of father confessor to one another. Suppose I 
give a fresh turn to it by introducing something less in- 
tense and less melodramatic. Do you intend making a 
long stay in Leuville?” 

He smiled down at her, until now he had been standing, 
and threw himself on the grass opposite her, with his head 
supported on his hand. 

“ I am a man without intentions of any kind,” he said. 
“I let myself drift. It is much easier. And you? Do 
you stay long?” 

“ Well, in this matter I am like you, without intentions. 
There was illness at home, and I brought my boy here out 
of the reach of it. I am waiting till I get my summons to 
return.” 

“ It is a jolly little place.” 

“I like it,” she answered; “but I should have thought 
you would find it too quiet.” 

“ Why do you think that? Do I show so plainly that 
excitement is the very breath of my nostrils?” 

“ I don’t know that, but perhaps there is a something — 
how shall I put it? You don’t look like a man who took 
pleasure in rest and quietness as a general thing.” 

“ I don’t,” he returned shortly, and then added, “ I have 
spent the last few years of my life in trying to escape from 
it. I would never give myself five minutes for thought if 
I knew how to avoid it. But I had no idea I showed my 
weakness so plainly. Thought, I take it, is almost as wear- 
ing as intentions are. I like to take things easily.” 

“ And do you?” 

“ Do I what?” 

“ Take things easily?” 


AN INTERLUDE. 


125 


“Why, yes, I think so.” 

She looked at him and shook her head slightly, with an 
unbelieving little smile, and he laughed with a rather found 
out air. 

“ I don’t believe in people who take things easily,” she 
said. “They haven’t got much heart. I don’t believe 
you are heartless. You may make believe that you don’t 
care a hang about anything” — the slang expression came 
very daintily over her lips — “ but I think you do care all 
the time. ” 

“Why, what a lot you are finding out about me,” he 
said, with indolent amusement. “ I shall grow frightened 
of you presently. Can you read the past in my face?” 

“ Better than you read mine,” she answered, and stopped, 
herself as if she felt she had said enough. 

“You like coming up here?” he began again presently, 
conscious of the little check in her manner and its cause. 
It was curious that she too should have that inclination to 
^ grow confidential, he thought. “ You like it better than 
the village?” 

“Yes, the air is better.” 

He glanced behind her, to where the open gate of the 
little cemetery stood on the other side of the road beyond 
the grass. 

“ And you do^t mind the neighborhood of the church- 
yard?” 

“ I like it,” she said; “ I have — a relative buried there. 
It is a pleasure to me to pay a little respect to the memory 
of the dead.” 

He looked at the black ribbons on her hat and dress. 

“ You do not forget so soon as some folks,” he said, with 
a feeling of grudge against the unknown dead. 

She shook her head gravely. 

“No,” she returned, “ I do not forget,” and as she spoke 
she laid her hand caressingly on the boy’s sunburnt cheek, 
as if the words had aroused a sudden tenderness in her heart. 

George saw the action without seeming to notice it, and 
this time his grudge was against the sleeping child. What 
had that little beggar done to deserve the monopoly of her 
love? he wondered savagely. 

“ He is a bonny little fellow,” he said; “ he would make 


0 


126 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


a pretty study in pastel.” And then a sudden inspiration 
came to him. “ I wonder if you would let me try to make 
a picture of him?” 

“A picture? Are you an artist?” she asked. 

“Not a bit of it!” he answered; “hut I have a great 
many artist friends, and I have been dabbing the pastels 
about a bit in their studios during this last spring and 
picked up a little of the trickery. I should like to try my 
hand at an original portrait. Will you let me make the- 
attempt with this young man?” 

“ I am afraid we should never get him to sit,” she said 
doubtfully; “he is so young!” 

“ Oh, I will try to catch the likeness as he runs about,” 
said George, with the easy audacity of the amateur. “ If 
you would let me have an opportunity of watching him at 
play.” 

She agreed to this willingly, and the arrangement was 
made then and there. George was to write by that night’s 
post for the paraphernalia, and the portrait was to be 
started as soon as the things arrived. He was to have the 
right of entree to the garden at La Bosquet any or every 
fine morning, until the boy’s dinner hour at one o’clock, 
and do the best he could with ihe little one running about 
at his play. 

“ I shall have to invent a few terrific stories of giants 
and dragons,” he said laughingly, “and catch his expres- 
sion as he listens. He is rather like you, isn’t he?” 

“ So people say. It is rather a sore point at home among 
his father’s people. Tliey would have preferred fiaxen 
hair and a milk-white skin ; but one cannot arrange these 
things to order.” 

The boy rode home to the gate of La Bosquet on George’s 
shoulder ; he had the knack of getting on with children, 
and they were the best of friends by the time they reached 
his halting-place. 

Here George made his adieux. He was thoroughly satis- 
fied with his morning’s work, and would not jeopardize 
losing his ground by too much eagerness. 

“ I suppose I ought to have introduced myself in due 
form an hour ago,” he said, when he had already bid her 
“good morning,” and moved a step or two away from the 


AN INTERLUDE. 


127 


gate, “but I never do do tbe things I ought. My name is 
Smith — George Smith. I have no cards with me. You 
see it never occurred to me that I should need one in such 
a place as this, so you must take my word for it.” 

“ Of course!” she answered. “Why not?” 

She laughed a little, nervously, as if she found herself in 
a sudden difficulty over this matter of the introduction, 
and then picked the child up and sat him on the closed 
gate between them. 

“ One advantage of your name is that it is easy to say 
and to remember,” she said. “ Artie, say ‘How do you do, 
Mr. Smith?’ ” 

The child did as he was told, coming to grief, as he 
always did, over the final th. 

“And now tell Mr. Smith your name,” she said, still 
with that touch of nervous disquiet showing itself in her 
manner. 

“My name is Artie, Lord Murphy,” replied the mite, 
getting as near to it as he ever got. 

“Artie, Laud, Murphy,” repeated George raising his 
hat with mock ceremoniousness, “ and a very pretty name 
too. Was he christened after the archbishop, Mrs. Mur- 
phy? You are evidently not Catholic, in spite of your 
Irish name. Good morning; Artie won’t feel kindly 
toward me if I keep him away from his dinner.” 

Mme. La Bosquet took the boy off the gate, and followed 
him up the path to the house, with a very unusual color 
in her clear cheeks and a dissatisfied look in her eyes. 

Not so George. He sauntered off down the hill without 
the faintest feeling of compunction for his barefaced false- 
hood. 

He was not going to risk the loss of her friendship by 
letting her know who he was ; with such a reputation as 
his, one lie more or less was not likely to trouble his con- 
science much. 

Of course he was playing the fool, he knew it as well as 
he knew that he was a living man, but he meant to go on 
with it. All his life long he had more or less been play- 
ing the fool, and all the folly of his past life was not equal 
to the folly he was committing now ; but all the same he ^ 
meant to go on with it. He was not quite sure that he 


128 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


could turn back if he would, but he was quite sure that 
he would not turn back if he could. 

The old gambling spirit was on him. only this time there 
was no doubt as to the price he would have to pay for the 
excitement of the game. There was no possibility of gain, 
he was bound to lose all he staked, and yet he would hold 
on for the troubled joy of the moment. Let the cost be 
what it might, he would at least have one memory to look 
back upon which should not be an unending reproach to 
him — just a week or so of frank, pleasant friendship with 
a heartsome, pure-souled woman, et voila tout. 

And yet if things could have been different. If he had 
been a man whom a dainty-minded woman could claim as 
a friend, without feeling that she lost a share of her claim 
to respectability by the association. If! If! Is there a 
more terrible word, when used in such a sense, than “ If.” 

If his past had been just no better nor worse than other 
men’s, and he had dared to let this woman see what she 
was becoming to him. How his eyes glowed at the 
thought. Then came the inevitable reverse of the picture. 
How would she look at him, and think of him, if she knew 
him for what he was — a profligate, who had wasted his 
father’s substance and reduced his mother to comparative 
poverty; a man whose notions of morality only stopped 
short at putting his hands openly in his neighbor’s pockets ; 
a libertine, who had a woman’s broken heart on his con- 
science, and her blood upon his soul ! 

He tormented himself by trying to imagine how her ex- 
pressive face would look as she listened to the recital of 
his backslidings; but it seemed to him that, no matter 
how deeply it might shock her, there would still be a look 
of pity for him in the luminous depths of her tender gray 
eyes. And at this idea a sudden maniacal wish to tell her 
all flashed into his mind; to tell her the whole story of 
that irretrievable mistake of his, and let her — out of the 
infinite mercy of her woman’s heart — judge betwixt him 
and the verdict of the world, 

“I believe she would be a bit sorry for me,” came the 
thought. “Until now I’ve always objected to people’s 
pity, but I shouldn’t mind having hers. I should like to 
see her looking at me in that way she has, as if she was so 


A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE, ETC. 129 

taken up with you and your affairs that she forgot herself 
altogether. One thing I’m pretty certain of, she wouldn’t 
he hard on me. She would not he hard on any living thing 
— it’s not in her — but to me she would be especially gentle 
and merciful ; if only because I didn’t let the cob trample 
the life out of that young imp yesterday. Good God ! how 
I should like to tell her everything and have her pity.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE ATHTTART A SHADOWY PATH. 

A WEEK had passed by, and the weather was giving signs 
of breaking. Sometimes of an evening the wind would 
whistle through the windows of the little LeuviUe inn in 
a way which suggested that summer was on her last legs 
and turbulent autumn was treading on her heels in his de- 
sire to take her place when she should be finished with and 
out of the way. 

One would have thought it was rather weird and eerie in 
that long, narrow, bare salle-h-manger on such evenings, 
but George Mirfield did not seem to find it so. He sat 
night after night by the little fire of green wood in the big 
chimney, at the end of the room furthest from the rattling 
windows, smoking a short wooden pipe, and listening, or 
seeming to listen, to Lorton’s little stories of the war, or 
his other little stories of the sea — sad stories nearly all of 
them — with a quiet, dreamy look on his face which was 
very nearly akin to contentment. Nearly akin to the 
thing — yes; but not the thing itself. He was living 
in a kind of opium-eater’s paradise, though he had not 
the opium-eater’s power to shut out all thoughts of the 
future. He tried his best to live only for the present 
moment. Still, the knowledge of what lay beyond would 
leap at him sometimes like a hungry wolf, and shake 
him out of his temporary enchantment. But he always 
drove the ugly horror out of his mind again ac quickly 
as he could. This was the one sunshiny spot in his 
shady life, he would say to himself; it was very rough 
9 


130 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


on him if he could not enjoy it without being troubled by 
the thought of the shadow, which lay denser and more 
gloomy than ever ahead of him, beyond the sunlight. 

He had written to his mother and told her he was at Leu- 
ville, but that he had been unable to find out much about 
Arthur’s married life there — which, under all the circum- 
stances, was perhaps not very astonishing — and asking her 
to give him a hint in which direction to point his in- 
quiries. He did certainly mean to ask some questions on 
the subject, sooner or later; hut there would always be 
time for that when there was a break in his morning visits 
to La Bosquet and his afternoon expeditions out and about 
with Mrs. Murphy and the hoy and nurse. 

The picture was going on slowly and execrably. In 
honest truth, it was a vile attempt, so far as workmanship 
went, for George was a poor artist ; but by a lucky fiuke he 
had succeeded in catching a touch of likeness, and this was 
enough for the adoring mother. She watched the work 
with the keenest pleasure, and was almost as interested in 
the marvellous stories which George invented to catch 
Artie’s attention as she was in the portrait itself, for 
George discovered a wonderful talent for story-telling dur- 
ing these garden sittings. It tickled his vanity to see 
the rapt attention on the child’s bonny, upturned face as 
he spun his miraculous yarns, and almost without know- 
ing it he slipped into such a dramatic style of recital 
that he grew quite astonished at his own powers of imag- 
ination. 

Mme. la Bosquet — it was by this name he always ad- 
dressed her; it fitted her better than “Mrs. Murphy,” he 
thought — Mme. la Bosquet would always keep a little be- 
hind him when he was working up the climax of these 
extraordinary stories, as if she was a little ashamed of her 
interest in the final fate of the fairy prince, or the ultimate 
triumph of the courageous knight over the bloodthirsty 
dragon. But George always knew she was listening; he 
knew the point at which she let her hands fall in her lap, 
and he knew just the look there was in her eyes as they 
rested on her little son’s immovable face of breathless in- 
terest. The foolish, innocent, childish bliss of these mo- 
ments, when he felt himself one of them, and was contented 


A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE, ETC. 


131 


to have it so, was a thing quite beyond analyzation, some- 
thing too dainty for the dissecting knife, too ethereal for 
examination — a thing which might disappear altogether, 
like a delicate dream, if inquired into too closely. 

It was generally after these moments of absurd exaltation 
that the thought of the future would fall upon him, like 
a stone dropped on to his heart; then he would laugh con- 
temptuously at his own “ drivelling idiotcy,” and in the 
next breath call himself a sacrilegious brute for scoffing 
at the only touch of purity which had ever lifted him 
above the level of the beasts. 

And so the days wore on, and the clouds overhead grew 
more plethoric every day, and George watched them with a 
secret anxiety, knowing those idyllic mornings must come 
to an end at the approach of bad weather. And at last he 
was awakened one gray daybreak by the patter-patter of rain- 
drops against his window pane, and realized that there would 
be no two hours of desultory work and delightful compan- 
ionship in the arbor on the edge of the cliff, for that day 
at all events. 

All the morning through he stood by the window watch- 
ing the storm, but by breakfast time he had had enough 
of this. Wet or dry, he must get- out of the house for a 
time, so he borrowed a workmanlike mackintosh from 
Lorton’s son, who had a fishing-boat of his own, and started 
at last to pay that visit to poor old Arthur’s grave, without 
a probability of being stopped en route. 

The shutters were all open at La Bosquet — there was no 
intrusive sunshine to shut out to-day— but there was no 
sign of anybody in the rooms facing toward the road, and 
he passed straight on, begrudging even this one morning 
spent away from his paradise. His mother’s answer to 
his inquiries might arrive by any post now, and there 
would be no longer any tangible excuse for his lingering 
at Leuville — not that he was at all likely to be definitely 
infiuenced by such a scruple as that, still there was some 
foolish shred of support in the idea that it was his mother’s 
wish as much as his own folly which kept him in his pres- 
ent dangerous position. For by this time he had arrived 
at that miserable pitch of weakness when one begins to 
seek excuses for one’s voluntary actions. 


132 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


As far as La Bosquet the road was sheltered here and 
there by banks and trees, but when he was once past the 
house the highway stretched on before him bleak and bare, 
and exposed to the very summit of the hill, where he could 
just see the cemetery gates outlined against the driving 
mist of rain beyond. On this exposed piece of road the 
storm pounced on him as a cat might pounce on a rat, and 
made a sport of him. He scarcely remembered being out 
in such a pandemonium before. 

The wind, full from the west, came rushing in from the 
sea as if hungry for mischief; it beat at and buffeted him, 
it pelted him with bucketfuls of rain — for the drops were 
so close that they seemed to run into one another — it 
shrieked and howled at him, until he was fain to turn his 
back seawards and wait for a few seconds to recover his 
breath somewhat. 

Once he half made up his mind to go back even now, 
and leave the cemetery till another day, but he laughed at 
his own molly-coddling the next moment and bent his 
broad shoulders to the blast, and held on his way without 
another pause till he was inside the gates of tlie graveyard. 

Once here, it was not very difficult to find what he had 
come to seek. He had heard from his mother that a suit- 
able tombstone had been sent over from England to mark 
Arthur Mirfield’s resting-place, and he had scarcely got 
inside the gates before he saw the fair white marble mono- 
lith, raising itself above its lowlier brethren, away in one 
of the most distant corners of the enclosure. 

Those among the other graves which had any distin- 
guishing mark at all were adorned with small crosses of 
iron or wood, and were further decorated with those huge 
gruesome wreaths, made of black and violet beads, which 
give such an abnormal air of gloom to all French burial- 
places. 

G-eorge made straight for the distant corner, with the 
wind and rain at his back now, and read the inscription 
on the handsome headstone : 

“In affectionate memory of Arthur Mirfield, who de- 
parted this life July the seventh, eighteen hundred and 
eighty-seven, in his twenty-sixth year.” 


A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE, ETC. 


133 


He stood for a few minutes in the driving rain, thinking 
of the poor fellow who was gone. 

He and Arthur had always been good friends, much 
better friends than he and Mirfield had ever been. Poor 
old Mirfield had told a lie once — a sneaking lie, that was 
the especial enormity of it — denying his share in some 
boyish wrong-doing in which they had all three been equally 
to blame. He and Arthur had borne the brunt without a 
murmur,'but they had neither of them ever quite forgiven 
the little act of treachery, and they had fallen into the 
habit afterwards of shutting the elder boy out of their most 
cherished undertakings, because they felt that he was not to 
be depended on in a crisis. 

George was thinking of this little incident now, as he 
read the gilt-lettered words announcing his cousin’s early 
death, and as he thought his glance wandered slowly here 
and there until it fell on a very small grave, at some little 
distance, on which two or three wreaths of natural flowers, 
still comparatively fresh, were lying. 

There was something so distinctive about these flowers 
among the multitude of hideous bead ornaments surround- 
ing them, that he went forward with a half-unconscious 
curiosity to look at the name on the ordinary little wooden 
head cross. 

It bore an English inscription : 

“ Sacred to the memory of Arthur, the much-loved infant 
son of Arthur and Mary Mirfield, who died at the early 
age of nine months, March the fourteenth, eighteen hun- 
dred and eighty-six, leaving his parents to bitterly mourn 
his loss.” 

When George had read the inscription through once he 
glanced round him at the graves nearest him, with their 
garniture of sad-looking, dripping wreaths; then he lifted 
his eyes and looked farther afield, at the bare open upland 
beyond the cemetery boundary, across which the wind was 
driving the rain in slanting sheets of mist. 

There was a look of non-comprehension in this glance 
around of his, a look which seemed to suggest that he was 
trying to assure himself of the reality of his surroundings. 


134 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


It was almost with a spice of reluctance that he brought 
his wandering glance back at last to the humble little cross 
at his feet and read the inscription through again. 

If Arthur’s little son was buried here, who was the child 
Arthur’s wife had taken home to The Fallow? 

Then it flashed into his mind, with the rapidity of light- 
ning, that this was what his mother had meant with her 
mysterious hints against the little heir and his mother. 
And before this idea was clearly formed it was displaced by 
a recollection of his own. 

He remembered that, when he received his mother’s tele- 
gram announcing the death of his two cousins, and allud- 
ing to “the infant’s life” which alone stood between him 
and the succession, he had imagined she must be speaking 
of a newly born heir at The Fallow. He remembered now 
that, when he received that telegram, there had been an 
impression in his mind that Arthur’s boy was dead; but 
when he heard of the child’s arrival with his mother at 
The Fallow he had not given another thought to the mat- 
ter, taking it for granted that that idea of his had been a 
mistake. 

And he had been right all the time! And the woman 
and the brat at The Fallow were rank impostors ! And he 
was the heir-presumptive to the Netley title and revenues! 
And there was nothing between him and them but the life 
of one feeble, failing old man ! 

A fortnight ago the prospect would scarcely have caused 
him more than a passing thought ; to-day it set his pulses 
bounding, sent the blood surging through his veins, until 
he grew giddy for a moment and neither saw nor heard 
anything but a dense blackness before his eyes and a rush- 
ing as of great waters in his ears. 

But the vertigo passed and left him clear-headed again, 
and possessed with a desire for violent exertion. 

After one more long look at the words on the little cross 
of wood, to assure himself yet again that his sight had not 
played him false, he strode from the cemetery and along 
the cliif road, away from the village. 

He was no longer conscious of the fury of the storm, 
though there was a vague sense of pleasure in his struggle 
with the wind ; the fact of fighting against something was 


A GLEAM OP SUNSHINE, ETC. 


135 


an untold relief to him. In all his life of excitement he 
had never felt anything like the whirl of emotion he was 
in now. 

That this chance of respectability and position should 
have fallen in his way now, just when he had such real 
need of them, seemed to him something so wonderful that 
he found himself suddenly believing in the existence of 
that especial providence upon which the pious people so 
strongly insist. His heart was full of such unbounded 
gratitude that the feeling in itself amounted to an act of 
homage, and but for his terror of cant, and his absolute 
conviction that this colossal stroke of good fortune was 
immeasurably above his deserts, he would have given way 
to some such cry as, “ My God, I thank Thee for this good 
thing Thou hast sent to me.'* As it was, the thought was 
in his heart if the words were not on his lips. 

He was too wild with excitement to make any plans at 
present, but there was a general outline in his mind of his 
future proceedings. He would put matters into the hands 
of the smartest firm of lawyers in London, he would get 
everything cut and dried beyond the possibility of over- 
throw, and then he would give that woman at The Fallow 
fair warning, and advise her to clear out. 

And in the mean time there was little Mme. la Bosquet, 
in the small house under the dip yonder, close to his hand. 

Would she, for the sake of the great love he bore her, 
consent to overlook that bad, black past of his, and help 
him to lead a cleaner, sweeter life for the future? At any 
rate, now he would dare to put it to her. With such an 
assured future to offer her he might at least try his chance, 
might do the best he could for himself, unfettered by the 
thought that he was dragging her down a rung in the so- 
cial ladder by asking her to link her future with his. 

He laughed a little bitterly as he thought of the differ- 
ence this discovery would make in people’s bearing toward 
him. Folks who for the past five years had passed him by 
on the trottoirs without seeing him would suddenly recover 
from their temporary touch of blindness when they heard 
of the imposition that had been practiced on his uncle and 
its effect on his prospects. 

But he had not much thought to devote to this the dark- 


136 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


est view of the great change that was in store for him ; 
his heart and mind were too much taken up with the 
brighter side of the picture, with the rainbow-hued hopes 
which had blossomed out into full beauty, as at the touch 
of a magician, while he stood by the side of that baby’s 
grave in the wind-swept cemetery on the hill-top. 

Hurried along by his eager thoughts, he had walked miles 
before he recollected to turn back, and the dim daylight 
was already fading a little by the time he reached La Bos- 
quet on his homeward road. 

This time fortune was kinder to him as he passed. Lit- 
tle madame was sitting at one of the windows, writing, and 
at the sound of his footstep she looked up and uttered a cry 
of surprise. 

The next moment he was at the open window, shaking 
hands with her and listening, with lips that smiled and 
eyes that shone, to her pitiful little exclamations of trouble 
at the condition he was in. 

“Imagine your being out at all in such weather,” she 
said in a scandalized voice of surprise; “ you must be mad! 
And of all places in the world to choose the cliff road, in 
the teeth of such a storm as this. Do come in and let us 
try to dry you a little.” 

But this he would not hear of. 

He was all of a glow with his walk, he said ; he should 
come to no harm. A few rain-drops would not hurt him ; 
at any rate he could wait until he got to La Belle Esperance. 
He had been wetter a dozen times in his life. 

And all this in a voice and manner so different from his 
usual quiet, unmoved bearing that she would have been 
blind not to see the change. 

She looked at him as he spoke with a touch of friendly 
curiosity. 

“I think wet weather must agree with you,” she said; 
“ it seems to have brightened you up just as it does the 
trees and flowers.” He laughed at that, and a certain 
suggestiveness in the laugh made her add : “ Or is it that 

some stroke of good fortune has come to you? Perhaps 
the family business that brought you to Leuville has turned 
out well?” 

“You have hit it!” he cried, laughing again from sheer 


A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE, ETC. 137 

boyish lightness of heart and moving a couple of inches 
further from the window, because the rain was pouring otf 
his mackintosh and making a pool on the polished floor 
inside. “ The business has turned out just splendidly — 
for me!” 

“How glad I am.” She brought her hands together 
with a quick, eager little gesture which expressed her 
pleasure very fully indeed. “ How very, very glad I am.” 

“Thank you,” he said, and perhaps it was the quiet 
warmth of the tone, or perhaps it was something in his 
glance, as he stood there in the rain, smiling down at her, 
that made her suddenly remember that she was showing a 
vast amount of interest in his affairs. 

She blushed a little — a soft, warm pink that just passed 
across her cheeks and was gone. 

“ Am I taking rather a liberty in feeling so much interest 
in your concerns?” she asked, speaking a little quickly in 
her sudden touch of consciousness. “ You must excuse 
me if I am. Though we have only known one another a 
few days, counting by time, it seems to me that we are 
quite old friends. You see, the manner of our introduc- 
tion opened my heart to you.” 

“ If you could guess what pleasure it gave me to know 
you took a little interest in my affairs I don’t think you 
would consider it necessary to apologize for it,” he an- 
swered quietly. And she flashed a smile up at him, and 
took to fingering the papers on the writing-table by which 
she was standing. “ If nothing else came of this visit to 
Leuville but this short glimpse of friendship with you,” 
he went on, “ I should still look back to it as one of the 
brightest and happiest periods in my life — a gleam of 
sunshine athwart a shadowy path. That alone would make 
the memory of this visit a lasting pleasure to me. But I 
believe there is more good coming to me from it. I be- 
lieve that it will change me, in the eyes of the world, from 
a wandering vagabond into something of a personage. 
You see before you, Mme. la Bosquet, a young man with 
excellent prospects. ” 

She laughed at his assumption of importance. 

“ Excellent prospects of catching a cold, I’m afraid, Mr. 
Smith.” 


138 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ Yes, and I shall give you one, too, if I keep you talk- 
ing near the open window in all this wet,” he said, shak- 
ing his sleeve free of rivulets before he offered her his 
hand. “ Good-night, sleep well, and dream of all sorts of 
good luck for me, including a fine day to-morrow for my 
work. I shall be up punctually at ten, if the weather is 
any way decent.” 

Then, as he stood there with her hand in his, a sudden 
unconquerable longing to speak just one word of the feel- 
ing at his heart took hold of him. 

“Little madame, do you believe in expiation?” he asked 
earnestly. “ Do you believe one can ever atone for a great 
wrong done? Do you think a man can ever outlive the 
effect of a great crime, committed in the heat of his youth? 
Can one who has ever done such a thing dare to hope for 
happiness in his after life.” 

“ I hope so,” she answered, and he felt her hand shaking 
a little as she spoke. “We are taught that if we repent 
we shall be forgiven.” 

“ Well, God knows I have been sorry enough, if that has 
anything to do with it,” he said solemnly. “ If regrets 
could wipe out the curse of — Mme. la Bosquet, one day, if 
you will let me, I should like to tell you the whole story of 
my downfall. From the day of my disgrace until now I 
have never spoken of the affair to a living soul, but I should 
like to speak of it to you. I should like you to know the 
deepest depths of my wrong-doing, and then I should like 
to ask you if you thought I had sinned beyond forgive- 
ness. I wonder if it would bore you beyond bearing to 
listen.” 

“ It would not bore me the very least bit in the world,” 
she replied, lifting her eyes, full of sympathy and self-for- 
getfulness, to his face. “ If it would be ever so little of a 
comfort to you to talk about it, it would be a great pleas- 
ure to me to listen. And — Mr. Smith — I am not a relig- 
ious woman — but — you know how the Bible says you shall be 
forgiven till seventy times seven. Would such a one as I 
be likely to think your fault beyond pardon after that, do 
you think?” 

“You are an angel,” he said, speaking lightly just be- 
cause he was feeling so deeply and was afraid of showing it. 


A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE, ETC. 


139 


“ I shall make you redeem that promise before we say 
‘good-hy’ to one another. And now I am really off to 
get into some dry clothes. Good-night.” 

His heart was very light within him as he went plung- 
ing down the hill into the moist obscurity of the village 
street. He had never had much opinion of himself, and 
where this especial woman was concerned he was as humble- 
minded as the hardest of his judges could have desired. 
And yet he could not help telling himself that that faint 
touch of consciousness and that sudden tremulousness, 
when he alluded to his past, were the most hopeful of signs 
for him. 

And until this breath of hope came to him he had never 
known what a howling wilderness of despair his life had 
been for these last five years. 

He had his dinner- table spread near the fire to-night, 
and dined by lamplight. He had no sympathy with the 
dull, sad gray of sea and sky in his present mood. He 
wanted to be cheery and cosy and warm and bright, and if 
the small lamp and the smoky fire of green wood were not 
all they might have been in these respects, his jubilant 
reflections supplied what was missing with their own 
radiance. 

And so he sat there in the little patch of lamplight near 
the fire, and forgot all about the bare, empty, stone-flagged 
room behind him. For he was committing the unheard- 
of folly of building castles in the air, and these castles in- 
variably took the outward presentment of the old stone 
house at Netley Fallow, and there was always a small, dainty, 
rounded figure in a white cotton gown to be seen in some 
corner of these mental pictures. Now she would be pacing 
the emerald-hued turf of the ladies’ lawn, at the side of 
the house, under the big beech-tree, arm-in-arm and in 
deep conversation with a stumpy, broad shouldered fellow, 
who had brought some trifling worry to her for discussion 
and advice. Then he would see her running down the 
broad, shallow, oaken staircase, with a smiling “Good 
morning” on her lips for the thick-set man who was wait- 
ing for her at the foot. Or, again, she would be leaning 
over a lace-befrilled lerceaunette in one of the bright upper 
rooms, worshipping the small pink-faced creature it con- 


140 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


tained, and declaring, with gay teasing, that the child was 
almost as ugly as its unfortunate father. 

He was still at this ridiculous occupation when the even- 
ing post came in, and Monsieur Lorton, finding himself in 
a dilemma, came in to ask his guest’s advice concerning an 
English letter which had just arrived. 

“ Although it is addressed to La Belle Esperance it bears 
the name of an English gentleman who was staying at La 
Bosquet some time ago,” he informed George. “The 
same gentleman of whose death I told you on the night of 
your arrival here. See, G. Mir-fee-eeld. The first letter is 
not the same, still ” 

“It’s all right,” interrupted George, putting his hand 
out and taking the letter. “ That is my name. I am the 
cousin of that other Englishman. It was business con- 
nected with his family that brought me to Leuville. Smith 
is simply a nom de guerre ” 

“Ah, la, la!” cried the Frenchman, “if I did not sus- 
pect something of the sort. Monsieur has not the air of a 
‘Smeet,’ and the blue eyes are very like, too. Oh, very 
like!” 

George smiled to himself as he opened his mother’s en- 
velope. He no longer needed any hints from her, he was 
thinking ; he had found out the secret against Mrs. Arthur 
for himself. 

“My deae Geoege,” ran the letter, “I have the most 
astonishing news for you, or perhaps by this time you have 
found out for yourself what 1 am going to tell you — indeed 
I hardly see how it could be otherwise. I saw Charlotte 
yesterday, for the first time since Daisy took to her bed, 
and she told me, what you have no doubt discovered long 
ago for yourself, that Mrs. Arthur and the boy she calls 
Arthur’s son are not at Harrogate, as everybody believed 
them to be, but at Leuville. I expect she and you are 
quite intimate by this time. In such a quiet place you 
must have met often. She is a small woman, with brown 
curly hair, pale skin, and bluish-gray eyes — not bad look- 
ing, in a certain underbred style, and with a vivacious 
manner, a way of seeming very interested in the person she 
is talking to, which the men find very attractive. She has 


A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE, ETC. 


141 


the boy with her, and an English nurse — of course you will 
recognize the description. Now, what can have taken her 
over to Leuville? One would have thought she had had 
enough of such a place as you describe it to be, during her 
husband’s lifetime. You ask for a hint in which direction 
to point your questions about the boy. Well, I can only 
suggest one thing — Is Arthur’s little son dead, and are 
they palming off a strange child on the earl? This should 
be enough for you. If the child died in Leuville there 
must be plenty of evidence of the death to be obtained on 
the spot. Write me soon ; I am all impatience to hear of 
your meeting with this impudent little actress person. 
That she is carrying on some intrigue I am absolutely cer- 
tain, and, independently of the enormous benefit which 
must accrue to you from her exposure, it would give me 
the very greatest pleasure to show her up to the earl, who 
has chosen to pet her and the boy from the moment of 
their arrival at The Fallow. Perhaps even yet I may live 
to see you where I have so often pictured you — at the head 
of your own dinner-table at Netley Fallow. It is always 
the one dearest wish of 

“ Your devoted mother, 

“Alice Mikfield.” 

It was not yet eight o’clock when the letter arrived, and 
at ten, when M. Lorton came to ask if his guest had any 
more orders for the night, for they were early people at 
Leuville, George was still sitting with his hands in his 
pockets, looking thoughtfully at the smoke-browned rafters 
over his head, with the letter lying open on the table be- 
fore him. 

He rose at Lorton’s entrance, bid him “Good-night,” 
crushed the letter into his pocket, and marched off, lamp 
in hand, to his own room. 

But once there, and the door safely locked, he sat down 
on the edge of his narrow bed, thrust his hands into his 
pockets again, and resumed his study of the overhead arch- 
itecture of the Normandy inn. 

He sat there so long and so immovably that the silence 
grew creepy at last. His face, never very fresh-looking at 
the best of times, was utterly colorless in the sallow lamp- 


11:2 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

light, and his mouth, never a handsome mouth under any 
circumstances, grew very hard and grim as the long, quiet 
hours passed by and the night wore slowly on toward morn- 
ing. He would probably have sat there until the servant 
with his pails of sea-water roused him at seven o’clock, but 
his lamp burned out between four and five, and, brought 
back to the present by its noisy spluttering, he bethought 
him to throw himself back on his pillows just as he was. 

And here, unable in the darkness to continue that ab- 
sorbed examination of the rafters, he dropped off into a 
heavy sleep, and woke up owlish and stupid, wondering 
dully why he had gone to bed in his clothes, at the rattle 
of the salt-water cans outside his door in the morning. 


CHAPTEK XIII. 

THE MAN WITHOUT INTENTIONS. 

As soon as his memory came back to him, his first im- 
pression was one of surprise that he should have slept. It 
was preposterous for a man who had so much to think of 
to waste time in sleep. 

When he was half-way through with his dressing he 
searched for his mother’s letter, and smoothed it out of its 
creases, on the top of his tiny washing-stand, and read it 
through from beginning to end, and then laughed at him- 
self for his pains. 

As if his overnight conviction needed verifying! As ?f 
there was room for the smallest atom of doubt as to the in- 
dividuality of “ the small woman with brown curly hair 
and bluish-gray eyes!” 

Very well, then, if his mind was so thoroughly made up 
on the question of identity, what did he mean to do? Did 
he mean to communicate with that abnormally acute firm 
of lawyers and denounce this “ impudent little actress per- 
son” for the impostor she was? 

No, damn it ! he would not take to calling her names, 
not even to himself. He would have knocked down an- 
other man for doing it, and it was simply a bit of black- 


THE MAN WITHOUT INTENTIONS. 


143 


guardism to take advantage of the fact that he could not 
perform that operation on himself. 

And yet, whether he gave her the name or not, was she 
not the thing itself? Let him be as generous-minded as 
he chose, could that alter the hard, unassailable fact? 

Arthur’s little son lay buried in the cemetery on the hill- 
top. He understood all about those fresh flowers now. 
By the date on the headstone there could not possibly be 
more than six months between the birth of the dead baby 
boy and this other one, who had taken his name and place, 
therefore they could not be brothers. Then, if Mrs. Arthur 
Mirfield had substituted another child for her own, and 
passed him off upon Lord Hetley as his grandson, what was 
she better than an impostor? 

A little burlesque actress at The Camel and Howdah 
Theatre, that was what she had been ! A young person 
who showed her pretty rounded limbs and spoke rhymed 
lines of varying metre without a glance in the direction of 
their possible meaning or punctuation, at a salary of thirty 
shillings or, at the outside, two guineas a week, utterly 
uneducated, light-hearted, and exceedingly attractive, he 
knew the type well enough ! 

And now, here she was ringing the changes on her father- 
in-law, substituting some stranger’s youngster for her own 
dead child, in order to retain the enviable position of the 
mother of Lord Netley’s heir! 

A bad lot all through, apparently — a baggage from start 
to finish — and yet for him she was the one woman in all 
the world, the one being who had ever roused in him a 
passion which had some touch of soul in it — an emotion 
which might still continue to exist apart from all question 
of gratification whatever, a love which had some touch of 
holiness in it to temper and redeem its grosser part. 

Until now he had never devoted a thought to the prob- 
able virtue or frailty of his various loves — now all this was 
changed — and though he tried to persuade himself that it 
did not matter, it hurt him horribly to find her so much 
less than he had thought her. 

Then his mood shifted round again, and he began to 
scoff and gird at himself for his sudden squeamishness. 
Who was he that he should be dainty? Of all people on 


144 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


God’s earth surely he was the last to be nice in matters of 
honor and honesty ! 

But in this case he was nice, and nothing could alter it. 

As for making up his mind as to his course of action, 
that was altogether beyond him; luckily there was no 
hurry, things would not hurt for being left as they were 
for a time. The actual condition of affairs was in no way 
changed by this discovery of his. He would wait and see 
how matters shaped themselves. 

And then, as the sun shone and he had a mad longing 
on him to see her again, he packed up his box of pastels 
and trudged away up the hill, and walked straight round 
to the arbor in the garden behind La Bosquet, and found 
her there waiting for him. 

There was something odd about this meeting with her 
under changed conditions. He had almost imagined, as 
he came along, that he should discern some alteration in 
her appearance, some sign of secretiveness, some furtive 
touch of caution in her manner. But she was just the dainty, 
bright, sympathetic creature she had always been; perhaps 
there was even an added warmth in her greeting this morn- 
ing, due to his last night’s indirect appeal for comfort. 

It was a relief to him to see no visible sign of a cloven 
hoof peeping from under the hem of her delicate clean white 
gown. She was not as perfect as he had thought her, hut 
she was just as sweet, as winning, and lovable as ever, and 
there was an end of all argument. 

He told her he had found out who she was, though he 
still kept his own personality hidden. 

“ Do you know, I think I have found a veritable mare’s 
nest,” he said, in one of the pauses of the conversation. 
He was shading the background of the portrait, and went 
steadily on with the mechanical work as he spoke. “ I 
heard last night from a friend of mine who is staying at 
Cramlingford in Yorkshire, and hearing I was here she 
wrote to ask me if I had seen anything of Arthur Mirfield’s 
widow. You see, I knew a man of that name very well 
some time hack, knew all the family in fact, and she 
thought I should be interested in meeting the poor old fel- 
low’s widow. To speak the truth,” he went on, conscious 
of her startled air and quickened breathing, “ I had almost 


THE MAN WITHOUT INTENTIONS. 


145 


forgotten he had left a widow — one’s friends drop through 
so completely when they get married.” 

He stopped speaking and went on methodically with his 
work, and after a slight pause, as of indecision, she gave a 
nervous little laugh and took the bull by the horns. 

“You have found me out,” she said; “it is no mare’s 
nest. I am Mrs. Mirfield. I knew you would find out, 
sooner or later, the mistake you had fallen into about the 
name, but it was not a matter of importance. Where is 
your friend staying at Cramlingford?” 

“ With Mrs. George Mirfield, at The Lodge.” 

“ Ah ! then I will venture upon a little piece of second 
sight and tell you that I know what was in you*> letter. 
Mrs. George Mirfield does not like me, and her friends 
would think as she does. Your correspondent told you I 
was a designing young woman of the adventuress type — 
impudent, ill-bred, and unscrupulous.” 

George glanced up from his work with a quiet smile, 
and she laughed aloud and went on without a trace of 
temper : 

“ You see, I know exactly how Mrs. George Mirfield talks 
about me, and, to speak the truth, I brought most of it 
on myself. She was naturally indignant that a person with 
such antecedents as mine — I suppose your friend told you 
about my antecedents? — should be received with open arms 
by my husband’s people at The Fallow. She has a great 
notion of keeping people in their place, you know — Mrs. 
George Mirfield I mean — and she tried to keep me in 
mine.” 

“And what sort of a job did she make of it?” asked 
George, with a whimsical look, as if he rather enjoyed the 
situation. 

“ Well, it didn’t turn out quite a success. I was really 
very impertinent to her. I was sorry afterward; I ought 
to have made more allowance for her. She has had a great 
deal of trouble with her only son, and trouble does sour 
one’s temper so much; but, you see, she worked me up 
into an awful temper too, and you can’t be answerable for 
what you say in a temper — at least I can’t. I am an awful 
vixen when I am roused. Lady Mirfield — do you know 
Lady Mirfield? — she says I am a born warrior, but really 
10 


146 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


I never want to fight nnless I am attacked first. So long 
as people are civil to me I never feel the smallest desire to 
he abusive; it is retaliation that is so sweet to me. Do 
you know Lady Mirfield? ^ 

“ I knew her before her marriage. I have not seen much 
of her since. I knew her husband very well, and I knew 
yours even better — a right down good fellow he was. I 
had a great liking for Arthur Mirfield.” 

She made no answer, only took up her work and began 
to be very busy, and George wondered a little. Was the 
sense of loss still so fresh, or was it that she was anxious to 
avoid ail allusions to her own past? 

It was curious how impossible he found it, when in her 
presence, to remember anything against her. He knew 
her to be a swindling impostor, who was doing her best to 
cheat him out of his inheritance, and yet, sitting there 
with'her, listening to her clear, bright voice, watching the 
fiash of her speaking glances and the play of her expressive 
mouth, he could think of nothing except that his life would 
be one long aching void without her. If her backslidings 
had been twenty times as heinous as they were he would 
still have loved her. 

He dropped speaking of her husband when he found she 
had no liking for the subject, and passed on to the other 
members of the family — to Lord Netley, Abney Garth, and 
Lady Mirfield. And here at last she roused up, and was 
responsive even to enthusiasm. 

“ She has been like a sister to me. I went into the house 
a stranger, of whom she knew nothing but harm, or at any 
rate nothing good, and she treated me as if I were a 
daughter returning to my own home. And you must re- 
member, too, that my boy was almost certain to put her 
little one into the background, and still she received us 
like that. She is an angel, Mr. Smith, or at least she is 
certainly as nearly an angel as one can be on this side of 
the grave. She is the sweetest — the most unselfish woman 
this world holds.” 

“ She is certainly a fine creature,” George admitted, turn- 
ing a little away from his easel with an evident inclination 
for a talk. “ Did you ever hear about that adventure of 
hers down in Wales the winter before she was married? I 


THE MAN WITHOUT INTENTIONS. 147 

always had an idea that she and Mirfield would never have 
brought things to a climax but for that business. He was 
a poetical, romantic sort of fellow, you know, and I think 
he was just carried out of himself by admiration for her 
splendid pluck, and proposed under the influence of the 
moment. I don’t believe he was ever a bit spooney on her 
— I never did — and she simply worshipped him. Queer, 
wasn’t it? She is the sort of woman some men would sell 
their souls for. ” 

Mrs. Mirfield let her hands fall on her lap and turned 
her head to look seaward, where one or two brown sails 
were gleaming in the sunlight, redly, against the keen blue 
of the horizon. 

“ One can never understand these things," she said piti- 
fully, with a world of sudden pain in her eyes. “ She 
never talks about her married life. I think it hurts her 
too much. I don’t like to speak of it either; it seems like 
a disloyalty to her. Tell me about that other affair — that 
adventure you spoke of. What was it she did that was so 
wonderful ? 

“ She stayed the livelong night out on the mountain- 
side, in a heavy snow-storm, with a man who had been 
knocked senseless in the hunting-field — stuck to him, when 
she might have ridden home and saved herself, because she 
thought he would be buried under the snow and lost for 
days if she left him." 

Mrs. Mirfield drew a long, quivering breath. 

“ It was a brave thing to do," she said gently, still look- 
ing away out to sea, with that odd, wistful look in her 
eyes. 

^ “ Well, yes, it was rather plucky," observed George dryly, 
feeling a little surprised at her sudden want of apprecia- 
tion; “but I expect you have heard all about it before?" 

“ Something of it — yes. Was the man young? I won- 
der he did not want to marry her." 

“ Oh, he was the father of a grown-up family himself — 
a tenant of her brother-in-law. I’ve forgotten the name, 
but I remember the family, because she told me about some 
of them coming to thank her for what she had done for 
their father. " 

“ How they must have felt toward her!" said she again. 


148 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


and now her eyes were shining with feeling as she looked 
round at him. “ I can enter into something of that, be- 
cause I, too, feel that I owe her a debt of gratitude which 
I can never pay. They must have felt that they could lay 
down their lives for her — I should have ! But, then. Lady 
Mirfield says I am a maniac on the subject of gratitude. 
As if one could be too grateful!” 

“ Well, I don’t know,” he answered with a meaning smile. 
“ I think you are rather given to over-estimating little ser- 
vices, judging by my own experience.” 

“ Of course I know what you mean,” she confessed, with 
a slight shake of her head; “ but I don’t see how anybody 
could over-estimate such a service as that — the preservation 
of a life dear to you. Why, it is impossible to put what 
one feels about such a thing into words. I never think of 
that day but my heart beats at the memory, till it sets me 
trembling. Look at my hand now, and judge for yourself 
what the feeling must be that can set your nerves and 
muscles vibrating like that.” 

He took hold of the shaking hand she held out to him 
across the little rustic table — he had not been prodigal of 
his handshakes during their ten days’ acquaintance, held 
back, perhaps, by some feeling that familiarity from him 
was not the due of a pure-minded woman, by some misgiv- 
ing that, if she had known all there was to know about 
him, she might have been more chary of her friendship. 
But now she seemed no longer so completely beyond his 
reach as she had been — his discovery of a flaw in her recti- 
tude had brought them just a little more nearly to the 
same level — and the thought that it was so was oddly 
compounded of pleasure and pain. 

“You are such an impressionable little woman,” he 
said, “ so easily influenced by your emotions. Do you know 
that if I wanted to ask ever so small a favor of you I should 
hesitate, because I should be afraid you would feel bound 
to grant it, whether you wished to or not, from some ridic- 
ulous notion of gratitude.” 

“ I hope you would not hesitate to ask anything of me,” 
she exclaimed eagerly ; “ if you want to give me a very 
great pleasure you will show me something I can do for 
you. Of myself, of course, I could do nothing, but Lord 


THE MAN WITHOUT INTENTIONS. 


149 


Netley is a person of some influence, and he would do a 
great deal for the man who saved his ” 

“Ah, don’t, please!” interrupted George, laughing in- 
wardly at the complications he was causing by the mainte- 
nance of his incognito. “ It was nothing of that kind I 
meant. In fact I don’t think I had any real meaning in 
my mind when I spoke.” 

“ I half hoped you had,” she answered, with a touch of 
disappointment. “ I hoped that perhaps I might be able 
to help you in some little way with the business you spoke 
of last night.” 

He laughed aloud this time; the irony of the situation 
was too much for him. 

“ Have you such an inveterate objection to a sense of 
obligation, Mme. la Bosquet?” he asked, with a touch of 
something in his manner which she could not understand. 
Was it only amusement, or was it some deeper feeling? 

“Not with you,” she said quietly; “I don’t mind feel- 
ing under an obligation to you. I should not like it with 
some people. It was not that that made me anxious to 
help — I only wished to help forward your business here ” 

“Ah! Now I have you!” "he observed, still with that 
baffling manner, half joking, half earnest. “ You are anx- 
ious to get me out of Leuville.” 

A bright, hot flush flashed into her face at the bantering 
accusation, and he realized how near to the truth he had 
unintentionally gone. 

“You are taking my nonsense seriously,” he said, pick- 
ing up his crayons and beginning to work in the shading 
at one of the top corners of his picture. He had enough 
liking for his own work not to go too near to the portrait 
while he was in his present heedless frame of mind. 

Why had he annoyed her with that preposterous remark? 
What was the good of his knowing what he knew if he did 
not use the knowledge to her advantage, by avoiding all 
allusions to the truth? 

“I am a clumsy fool,” he went on, when she did not 
speak. “ When I try to make a joke I always put my foot 
in it. Though, perhaps, it was hardly all a joke after all,” 
he added; “the thought that you were anxious to rid your- 
self of my company touched me in a vital part — my conceit.” 


150 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


She looked up at him with a rather wistful smile. 

“We are acting like a couple of children,” she said. 
“ Your society has been a very great pleasure to me here, 
and you know it without my telling you. And I know 
that you have been glad to come up here of a morning to 
wile away the time. Why should we make a mystery of 
our pleasant mutual liking, like a foolish boy and girl in 
love with one another? All the same, now that your bus- 
iness here has been brought to a successful conclusion, you 
will naturally be leaving. This is not the sort of place a 
man could put up with, except for some special purpose.” 

“ But I don’t think I told you that my business was 
quite concluded, did I?” he asked. “ I have received some 
fresh news on the subject since I stood talking to you in 
the rain last night. I am not so near the settlement of 
the matter as I believed. Don’t say you are sorry I’m not 
going directly, even if you mean it. I am fool enough to 
be glad of anything that gives me an excuse for staying 
near you a little longer.” 

It was farther than he had ever gone before. He saw a 
faint trouble in her face, but w'hether it was due to his 
change of tone or to the fact of his lengthened stay in the 
neighborhood of her dangerous secret he could not tell. 
Now that she knew he was acquainted with the Mirfield 
family she would see the peril there was for her in his 
presence at Leuville. He wished he could reassure her on 
this point; but any allusion would alarm more than reas- 
sure her. Nothing could be so comforting to her as the 
belief that he was in perfect ignorance on the subject, and 
likely to remain so. He had almost made up his mind to 
leave the question entirely alone, when a sudden idea came 
to him. 

“ In my friend’s letter last night,” he said, after a some- 
what long pause, durir^ which they had both of them kept 
their fingers busily occupied, “ she told me that your hus- 
band is buried here, Mrs. Mirfield, and as an old friend I 
suppose I ought to take a look at his grave; but I have 
such an inveterate dislike for burial-grounds — and for 
French ones in particular — that I am going to shirk the 
duty altogether. I hope you won’t think me very wanting 
in proper feeling?” 


THE MAN WITHOUT INTENTIONS. 


15i 


It gave him a queer feeling to see how she took his slyly 
administered comfort. She shot one radiant glance at 
him and then bent her pale face low down over her work, 
as if she was afraid of betraying herself. 

He wanted . to take her into his arms straight-away and 
tell her that he knew everything, but that he would not use 
his knowledge to her detriment. He had never known 
such a desire to play the part of comforter in all his days. 
What must she endure, he asked himself pitifully, haunted 
continually by the fear that her trickery would be found 
out? 

“ I should be more likely to think you wanting in proper 
feeling,” she said, speaking with her face still bent over 
her work, “ if you went unwillingly to your friend’s grave. 
It would be a poor kind of respect to show to the dead to 
visit them with a feeling of repugnance at your heart.” 
She was quiet a moment or two, then she began again : 
“ That is one thing I like so much about you — you are out- 
spoken in your likes and dislikes. I don’t believe you 
would do as many do who think themselves quite conscien- 
tious people — play fast and loose with your conscience for 
expediency’s sake.” 

“ Conscience?” he repeated, with a touch of amusement. 
“ Bless you, I have no conscience ! I threw it overboard 
with my respectability years ago. I am a bad lot all 
through, Mrs. Mirfield. If you knew half how bad, I doubt 
if you would ever have had anything to sayio me. You 
spoke just now of gaining Lord Netley’s influence on my 
behalf — do you know, if you once made him understand 
who I was, he would be haughtily indignant at my daring 
to push myself upon your notice at all.” 

“You so often speak of yourself like that,” she said, 
letting him see that she was sorry. “ I wonder if there 
really is any cause for your depreciation of yourself, or 
whether ” 

“Wait until you hear!” he interrupted, breaking into 
her sentence heedlessly. “ I’m putting off telling you my 
charming little story because I’m afraid, when you hear it, 
you will do as all my other friends have done, give me the 
cut direct, and I’m egregious ass enough to care about 
your friendship— an ass, because it’s just folly to let your- 


152 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


self get to care for a thing that you know you can only 
enjoy for a time.” 

“But you shall enjoy it always!” she cried, opening 
her eyes wide at him, with a delightful touch of indigna- 
tion. “ Do you think I should allow anything you had 
done years ago — you said it was years ago — when you were 
a foolish, thoughtless lad, to influence me against you 
now? And there is another consideration to be taken 
into account. This dreadful thing that you have done — 
is it really as dreadful as you and your world choose to 
think? You see I know, of my personal experience, how 
cruel it is to be judged by appearances. Were you so 
judged?” 

She looked at him with a kindly little air of scrutiny, 
and, when he only screwed up his lips in the manner of a 
person who has really nothing to say for himself, she shook 
her head and told him she chose to believe in him until 
she was able to judge of his wrong-doing for herself. 

And somehow this attitude of hers set him off wondering 
if he had done her a wrong in judging her by appearances. 
What if there was some explanation of alfairs after all 
which would leave her free from the taint of fraud? 

He could not see how it could be so, and yet he was no 
longer so certain of her guilt as he had been. He might 
set her down as a rank impostor again later on — how could 
he do otherwise in the face of all the facts? — but just at 
that moment he was able to throw all mistrust from him. 

“I do not make friendships easily, Mr. Smith,” she 
added, “ but I make them to last, and I warn you that I 
don’t mean to break my rule in your case.” 

“Not even to oblige Lord Netley?” 

“Not even to oblige Lord Netley,” she replied, sitting 
very upright and looking at him steadily. “ If he really 
were to say anything against you I should put my hand 
over his lips and say, ‘If your own gratitude won’t keep 
you from running this man down, you must still leave off 
slandering him in my presence ; he is my friend; when you 
insult my friend you insult me, and I have yet to learn 
that Lord Netley is capable of insulting a woman. ’ ” 

He looked at her admiringly. It was the first touch of 
dramatic instinct he had seen in her, and it became her 


THE MAN WITHOUT INTENTIONS. 153 

admirably. In an instant the question suggested itself to 
him: Would she go back to the stage if she ever had to 
leave Netley Fallow? 

*^You are very stanch!” he said quietly. “Perhaps 
if I had had a few people to stand by me like that, when 
I made my first muddle of things, they might have held 
me back a bit.” 

“ I wish you would not speak so hopelessly of yourself,” 
she cried, with sorrowful impatience. “ You always talk 
as if your life was over and done with. It is simply awful, 
at your age.” 

He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders very slightly, and 
began to pack up his paraphernalia. 

“ We won’t talk about it at all,” he said. “ I’m not so 
indifferent about it all as I used to be, and it makes me 
doleful, and I’m sure it cannot be a pleasant topic for you. 
Don’t you think the face looks more lifelike now I’ve got 
the shading in? It throws up the fiesh tints a little. Two 
more mornings and I shan’t have a ghost of an excuse for 
indicting my society upon you any more.” 

“I am sorry,” she said candidly. “It has been very 
pleasant. But I am expecting my recall daily now. Shall 
you have to stay much longer in Leuville, do you think? 
it will be very desolate.” 

“ I don’t know yet what I shall do. You know I told 
you before that I was a man who never had intentions, or 
formed plans. I shall just see what turns up, and drift 
with the current. It is the only thing I’ve got enough 
pluck for — to let things severely alone. ” 

She gave him another of those wistful looks. 

“ I wish I was your sister,” she said. 

“Do you? I don’t,” he answered her, laughingly. 
“ I’m almost sure I like you better as you are.” 

He made no suggestion for an afternoon trip that day, 
and she wondered a little at the omission. 

All the afternoon through he sat in the sunshine, on the 
end of the sea wall, where he had seen the three peasant 
women swinging their legs on the evening of his arrival. 
He smoked prodigiously, and if there had been anybody 
to notice him they would have come to the conclusion that 
he was thinking deeply, but he would have denied the im- 


154 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


putation. He had thought enough last night to last him 
for the rest of his life. He had done with serious thought 
so far as this subject was concerned. What was the good 
of bothering? Things were much better as they were. If 
he had been a shade more sure of himself, if he could have 
believed that his sudden liking for quietness and peace was 
likely to last, he might have seen a way out of this ghastly 
muddle ; but as it was, things were best left as they were. 

He could do her a good turn this way ; the other way he 
might bring unending trouble on her, just as he had done 
on everybody else who had ever cared a rap for him. 

Things should drift their own way. 

Perhaps it was his determination to leave things alone 
which prompted him to take his mother’s crumpled letter 
from his pocket and tear it into tiny shreds, and toss them 
broadcast over the incoming tide, where the wind caught 
them and bore them fluttering far out to sea, like so many 
messages of truce and good-will to the world at large. 

Perhaps it was his determination to leave things alone 
which prompted him to write a short letter to his mother 
that night, in which he informed her that he had made 
Mrs. Arthur Mirfleld’s acquaintance, but had not come 
across any evidence of the child’s death in Leuville. Per- 
haps! As he himself said, it did not need much pluck to 
leave things alone ; at any rate it was the only course he 
had energy enough for. He had been a lazy, skulking, 
purposeless vagabond for a good many years now, why 
should he alter his life all in a minute, and bring no end 
of bother and bustle on himself? 

Why, indeed! 


CHAPTER XrV. 

GEORGE MIRFIELD TELLS HIS STORY. 

Nobody but himself knew how George garnered up and 
made much of every moment of the last few mornings he 
was to spend in the little garden enclosure behind La Bos- 
quet. 

The sweetness of his intercourse with this little woman 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TELLS HIS STORY. 


155 


and her boy was intensified by the knowledge that it was 
passing away from him with every minute, just as the love 
of a lifetime seems concentrated into the passionate tender- 
ness of a deathbed parting. 

In all the time to come, be it short or long, he would 
always look back to these sunny days at Leuville as a dream 
of bliss and purity and light — something to be shut up in 
his heart of hearts, to be kept sacred from the jesting com- 
ment of his acquaintances. At the thought of such a one 
as Barnstaple making light of his love passages with the 
“fetching little widow he met in Normandy,” his hands 
doubled up instinctively, and his mouth looked dangerous. 

He laughed grimly, though, at the notion of that prec- 
ious worthy’s astonishment if he could have seen the life 
his comrade was leading just now. How those seared, 
bloodshot eyes would open at the spectacle of George Mir- 
lield seated in ^a creeper-grown arbor, , with a soft-voiced 
little lady in a white cotton gown at work with her needle 
by his side, and a curly-haired youngster playing horses on 
the grass before them. And he had to acknowledge that 
the major’s astonishment would be justifiable, for it was a 
fact that he had himself scarcely ceased to wonder at his own 
unusual meek and mild serenity. 

It was all very peaceful and idyllic, with the clematis 
boughs swinging to and fro above his head, in the clear 
bright summer sunshine, and the plash of the waves on the 
beach below making a sleepy murmur in the air around 
them, and forming a pleasant accompaniment to little 
madame's sweet, gay laughter and the boy’s shouts of 
merriment ; but still it was extraordinary how completely 
he had ceased to hanker after those other sounds — the 
smooth roll of the roulette ball, the cry of the croupier, 
the insidious trail of his rake as he drew in the bank’s 
winnings. It seemed something of a miracle to George. 
He had never had a chance before of finding out how sick 
he was of the sordid, grinding monotony of the gambling 
hells, and it appeared to him that this change in his feel- 
ings, this delight in fresh air and wholesome companion- 
ship, had some touch of the marvellous in it. 

Once or twice he recalled Mme. Koek-koek’s little lect- 
ures, and smiled as he thought how she would applaud her 


156 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


own insight if she could have seen him now, and seen the 
enjoyment he got out of his present innocent life. Per- 
haps some day, when the memory of this fortnight in Leu- 
ville had grown to be nothing more than a dream, of which 
the joys and sorrows were alike dimmed by distance, he 
might tell the kind-hearted danseuse something of his taste 
of pure happiness — perhaps. But not yet. It would be 
some time before he would be able to discuss the little epi- 
sode with the necessary show of easy unconcern — perhaps 
quite a long time. 

And meanwhile he arrived at his last morning at La 
Bosquet. 

Going up as usual at ten o’clock, to make a pretence of 
adding finishing touches to the boy’s portrait — which was 
already as “ finished” as George’s indifferent art could make 
it — he was met by madame with the news of their depart- 
ure on the following day. 

The moment she heard him talking to Artie she came 
toward him from the house, and before she spoke he guessed 
at something disastrous by the added touch of pallor to the 
usual clear, transparent purity of her skin. 

“I have heard from home,” she said. “My recall has 
arrived. We leave to-morrow.” 

He took her hand and made a little grimace. 

“You might have broken the news more gradually,” he 
murmured, with an air of mock tragedy. “ Suppose I had 
swooned at your feet.” 

Nevertheless, in spite of his would-be joke, she saw her 
own pallor reflected in his face, and hastened her speech 
as if she were afraid of silence. 

“ Lady Mirfield’s little girl is well enough to be moved 
to the sea for a few weeks, and the south wing is being 
purified and fumigated, and Lord Netley sends word that 
he wants us at home badly, so of course we are off at once.” 

“ Of course,” he repeated, and, stopping there, she hurried 
on again, as if the welfare of the universe depended on 
her keeping the conversation going. 

There was not much in what she said. She chattered 
on about the details of the journey, and so forth, but if 
there was nothing very satisfying in the bald discussion of 
such things as changes from one line to another, and the 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TELLS HIS STORY. 


157 


hours of arrival and departure, it served to prevent any 
show of self-consciousness. 

And George was saying to himself that this was a wretched 
waste of time on their last morning together, and yet had 
enough sense left to acknowledge the wisdom of it. He 
kept on telling himself that if he could only get through 
the morning and make his adieux on this commonplace 
footing it would be a cause for congratulation, and yet his 
heart was hungering to speak. 

It was one of those close, stifling days at the end of sum- 
mer, when, even on a cliff top overhanging the sea, there 
seems to be hardly a breath of air ; and hy-and-hy there 
came an ominous shadow over the sun and a dead stillness 
in the atmosphere which seemed like the forerunner of a 
heavy storm. 

But George held on with his work, and refused to take 
warning. 

What were storms to him in face of the fact that this 
was in all probability the last time they two would ever sit 
side by side? Was it likely he would throw up one of 
those thrice precious minutes for fear of the biggest drench- 
ing in the world ? 

And so it happened that, when the storm broke in a 
sudden fury right over their heads, they had to make a 
rush for the house, she with the portrait held carefully 
face downwards, and he with the scared child in his arms. 

Artie did not like the thunder and lightning. He was 
hardly frightened, but it evidently awed him a good deal, 
and he was content to sit quiet and still in his mother’s 
arms, and watch the storm over the sea, without putting a 
whole string of questions, as was his usual habit when any- 
thing he did not understand was going on. 

And there presently he fell asleep, worn out perhaps by 
the langourous heat of the day, and left those other two 
absolutely alone. 

It was the first time in their fortnight’s acquaintance 
that they had found themselves tete-a-tete inside a house. 
Out in the open their intercourse had been singularly free 
from ceremony, but being indoors seemed to bring a sense 
of conventionality and restraint with it. 

George went round the room, looking at the pictures on 


158 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

the walls and the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and mak- 
ing would-be funny remarks on their oddities when the 
crashing thunder allowed him to be heard. He made them 
last as long as he possibly could, and fetched up at last by 
the closed window, in the other side of which she sat, in the 
shadow, with the boy’s bright head pillowed on her breast. 

The thunder was less continuous than it had been, 
though the rain still plashed in sheets against the window. 
She felt a silence coming, and grew talkative again, re- 
turning to the subject of their home-going and to Lord 
Netley’s anxiety about the boy. 

“You see he is his grandfather’s only hope,” she said; 
and he returned interrogatively, — 

“ You mean in the matter of the succession?” 

“ Yes: he is the next heir.” 

“ But surely not the only one?” said George, yielding, 
before he was aware of it, to a sudden temptation to hear 
something of himself from her. “ Ins’t there a man — a 
nephew, or something of the sort in the family?” 

“You mean Mrs. George Mirfield’s son,” she replied, 
with a shade of hesitation in her manner. “ Of course he 
would inherit if anything happened to Artie ; but Lord 
Netley dislikes him so much, that I believe he would die 
of annoyance if he thought he would reign at The Fallow 
after him.” 

“Poor chap!” observed George, with a touch of easy 
contempt. “ What has he done to earn his lordship’s dis- 
like, Mrs. Mirfield?” 

“ I don’t know the rights of the story,” she said, “ and 
sometimes, when I see how bitter Lord Netley can be 
toward people he doesn’t like, I fancy that perhaps he is a 
little hard on this reprobate nephew of his.” 

“ What an adorable little woman you are!” cried George, 
with a sudden fervor which sent the startled color into her 
cheeks. “You always take the part of the publicans and 
sinners. You shall. hear the story of George Mirfield’s 
backsliding, and judge for yourself.” 

“Do you know the story?” she asked, lifting her lips 
from kissing her little son’s head, and looking at him with 
a suddenly aroused interest. “ Do you know him — George 
Mirfield?” 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TELLS HIS STORY. 159 

“ I knew him at the time he ran amuck,” he told her, 
with a short laugh, “ but I don’t think I know him now. 
He is another chap altogether to the fellow I knew. I was 
in the same regiment with him when that deplorable affair 
happened, and I knew as much about it as most folks. 
Will you hear the story? It will kill a minute or two, 
till this rain slows off a little.” 

“ I should like to hear it very much indeed,” she said, 
and her eyes said it even more emphatically than her words. 
They were full of that warm interest in other folks’ trou- 
bles which is as different from impertinent curiosity as 
sunlight is from shadow. It was sympathy, not inquisi- 
tiveness, which prompted the desire to know the story of 
George Mirfield’s youthful mistake. 

“He was only twenty-two when it happened,” began 
George, resting his eyes on the pretty, attentive face in 
the shadowy corner, and mindful, under all the thoughts 
which this recalling of the past brought rushing into his 
memory, that this was probably the last time she would 
look at him in that frank, open way. “ Only twenty-two, 
scarcely more than a boy, and he had a boy’s full share of 
liking for a pretty face.” 

A heavy peal of thunder came echoing in from over the 
sea, and he waited quietly, leaning his shoulder against the 
window frame, until the roar and rattle had died away be- 
fore he went on. 

“ It was the daughter of the senior troop sergeant he 
came to grief over — a man who was thought very highly of 
in the regiment. As for the girl, she was the pet of us all. 
She had belonged to the — th hussars since her birth, and 
they were very proud of her. One of the most kitten-like 
faces you could imagine, little madame — innocently 
naughty, if you can understand such a paradox — and as 
uncertain and fascinating in its constant changes as an 
April morning. 

“ Sergeant Slelton worshipped her — his only child, so you 
will be able to enter into his feelings — and he guarded her 
as the proverbial apple of his eye. But, to use another 
proverb, love laughs at locksmiths, and I don’t suppose 
there was ever a girl yet who couldn’t hoodwink her father 
and mother if her heart was hard enough set on it. At 


IGO A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

any rate Jenny Melton did. She used to contrive imagin- 
ary visits to her aunts, and so forth, who lived in the town 
a mile away from the barracks, and during these visits she 
and Mirfield invariably managed to meet somehow. 

“ I give you my word, Mrs. Mirfield, that at the start 
they neither of them meant more harm than a couple of 
babes; but the poor girl’s vanity was a little touched per- 
haps at having an admirer among the officers, and it is just 
possible that she took his love-making more seriously than 
he meant it at the first go-ofi; not that I want to excuse 
the boy ; she had a pretty face and caressing little ways, 
and he was as hot-headed as the rest of his kind ; and the 
end of it was that harm did come of it, and the knowledge 
burst upon George like a bombshell. 

“ I was in his quarters one night, smoking and talking, 
when his man came and said Sergeant Melton was outside, 
would he see him? 

“ Well, with all his faults, Mirfield was never the fellow 
to shirk the consequences of his own actions, and he saw 
the man ; though he guessed there was a pretty bad time 
before him. 

“ But his expectations came nowhere near the thing 
itself. ” 

George paused a moment, as if the memory of that inter- 
view still stirred him so profoundly as to make him shrink 
from the task of discussing it. 

“You see,” he said, resuming in a lower key and speak- 
ing more slowly, as if the words came reluctantly, in obe- 
dience to a strong effort of will, “ you see, Mrs. Mirfield, 
it wouldn’t have been half so bad if poor Melton had blus- 
tered a bit; but he didn’t, never spoke angrily nor raised 
his voice once. He just stood inside the door of the room, 
as straight and steady as if he was on parade, with his lace 
as colorless as death, and a look in his eyes like a drowning 
dog’s, and told us what he had just found out. 

“ The girl’s mother had heard something, and had tackled 
the poor little soul, and she had owned up to the whole 
thing. 

“ ‘I don’t expect any redress,’ Melton said, in the quiet, 
heart-broken way he used all through; ‘my girl has made 
her bed, and she’s got to lie on it. I only came here be- 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TELLS HIS STORY. 


161 


cause I felt as if my heart would burst if I didn’t talk of 
my trouble to somebody, and it seemed to me you were the 
proper man to be burdened with me. And yet, with all 
my trouble, I wouldn’t change places with you, Mr. Mir- 
field. You’ve broken the hearts of three people, and mark 
my words, you’ll find those broken hearts the biggest load 
that even you ever had to lift’ — I was the champion weight- 
lifter of the regiment, — ‘the biggest load you ever had to 
carry in your life, and one that you won’t get rid of for 
many a weary year to come.’ ” 

Molly drew a quick little breath at the involuntary self- 
betrayal, but said nothing; indeed she was scarcely sur- 
prised. He went on, too absorbed in his recital by now to 
be conscious that he had let out his secret, or to care about 
it if he had been. 

“ There was something about the poor fellow’s quiet way 
of telling his trouble that made one just ache with pity for 
him. It got at Mirfield fairly. He was clean off his head 
with sorrow, or remorse, or something of the kind, and he 
jumped up from his chair, and pitched his pipe against the 
opposite wall, and put his hand out across the table toward 
the man by the door. 

“‘May I smoke that pipe again,’ he said, pointing to 
the shattered fragments, ‘if I don’t marry your girl, 
Melton!’ “ 

Little Mrs. Mirfield pressed her sleeping boy close up 
against her breast, hugged him to her in a quick little rush 
of emotion which made her eyes dewy and her voice un- 
steady. 

“ Oh, I am glad!" she cried tremulously, “oh, how glad 
lam! He could not do more — no man could." 

“Ho, I don’t think they could," agreed George, “and 
poor Melton thought the same. He came away from the 
door, and they gripped hands, and Mirfield looked him 
straight in the eye and said, ‘I’ll do it, Melton, by God, I 
will!’" 

“ Well, the whole business was arranged on the spot. 
Mrs. Melton was to take the girl up to London the next 
morning and get lodgings, and George was to apply for a 
week’s leave, and the marriage was to take place the moment 
the necessary formalities could be gone through. There’s 
11 


162 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


no doubt he would have lived to repent the impulse if it 
had ever been acted on, but all the same the impulse was a 
good one. It’s as well to insist on that, for it was the only 
good thing about the whole business. 

“ Now comes the bad part of the story. 

“ Melton had been gone about an hour, and Mirfield was 
just turning in, when he heard a bustle and fuss in the 
barrack square. He was feeling very peaceful and con- 
tented with himself — sunning himself in the rays of his 
own virtue, so to speak — and. when Jie opened the window 
to find out what the row was about there was quite a touch 
of the Pharisee about him. Some poor devil was playing 
the fool no doubt, he thought, as he leaned out. 

“ There was a full moon, and in the clear light he saw 
people running to and fro on the far side of the enclosure, 
near the married non-com. ’s quarters; and nearer, coming 
straight toward his window, there was one man, in his 
shirt and trousers, running as if for his life. It was Mel- 
ton, and when he recognized him Mirfield leaned far out 
and asked what was wrong. 

“Then Melton lifted his face up in the light of the 
moon, and Mirfield was frightened at it. He looked mad, 
downright mad. 

‘“She is dead,’ he whispered, ‘Jenny is dead! I was 
too hard on her before I came round to you to-night, and 
she took it to heart too much, and she has poisoned her- 
self. She* is lying on her bed over yonder, stiff and stark, 
and you would have made an honest woman of her! It’s 
me that’s killed her, me that loved her better than any- 
thing in earth or heaven.’ 

“ He turned, and ran like an arrow, across the square 
and out of the gate. The sentry never thought of stopping 
him ; he’d heard of the trouble, and thought he was off for 
another doctor. In the morning his body was found, tied 
by the heels, among the reeds in the river.” 

“Oh, poor things! poor things!” cried Molly. The 
tears were running unheeded down her face now, and the 
sobs were coming in quick gasps from between her quiver- 
ing lips. “ How terrible, how dreadful for everybody ! and 
most of all for that poor boy! Oh, I don’t wonder at any- . 
thing he has done since. It was enough to break his heart. 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TELLS HIS STORY. 163 

His remorse must have almost driven him mad. It was 
worse for him than for anybody!” 

“ I’m glad you can see that,” said George — he spoke a 
little huskily, as if telling the story had put a strain upon 
him — “very glad! Nobody else ever saw it, Mrs. Mirfield, 
nobody else ever thought of pitying him. The outside 
world had nothing but blame for him — blame of the bitter- 
est, the most unqualified kind — and he went down under it. 

“ What he went through at the time was bad enough in 
itself; but when everybody began to drop him, it grew 
more than he could stand. It broke him. He had a mad 
fit of drinking, and then the colonel sent for him and ad- 
vised him to exchange.” 

“ And did he exchange?” 

“ No ; he cut the army altogether. Threw up his com- 
mission, ran away to the Continent, to get out of the way 
of everybody who knew him, and went headlong to ruin — 
drink, gambling, bad company, riotous living of all kinds. 
He never pulled up till he found himself at the end of 
his tether — without a penny to bless himself with but what 
his mother allows him out of her private income. He’s 
looked upon as a pretty queer lot now. Respectable peo- 
ple find it convenient to forget him when they are unlucky 
enough to meet him face to face; and the worst point in 
the whole business is that he is getting so used to it now 
that he don’t care a hang about it. And so he goes on 
from bad to worse, only held back from the last plunge of 
all by the thought of his mother. 

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it, Mrs. Mirfield,” he broke off, 
with a sudden abrupt change of manner, lifting himself as 
it were out of the dim valley of the past on to the level 
ground of the present again — “ it is really wonderful how a 
mother will cling to her progeny, after all the rest of the 
world has grown sick of them and their misdoings. AVhat- 
ever that little chap in your arms may do in the time to 
come, it’s wonderful to think that he will never be able to 
shake your love for him.” 

She held the boy close to her, as if so she would guard 
him from all the unknown perils that lay before him. 

“ It would not be love if it did not survive evil report,” 
she said softly. Her cheeks were still wet, he could see 


164 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


the tears from where he stood, and the thought that they 
had been shed for him was, to his withered heart, as dew 
in the desert to the thirsty traveller. “ Evil-doing may 
quench liking, esteem, respect, even friendship, but not 
love. It is one of God’s most merciful decrees that love, 
pure and simple, is not influenced by the judgment; if it 
were, the wrong-doers would be badly ofl indeed." 

“ It is a blessed doctrine!" murmured George, and stood 
quiet for a little, watching the play of the distant lightning 
over the slaty waters, and the plashing of the raindrops in 
the puddles under the window. 

He looked round presently to make some remark that 
should ease the burdensome silence, and found her eyes fixed 
in tenderest compassion on his face. 

“I was going to say," he began, and stopped suddenly, 
held by her earnestness. And so they waited a second or two, 
with their gaze on one another, as if they were each read- 
ing the other’s very soul. 

And then a tender little sound broke from her, just such 
a sound as she might have made at sight of some bad hurt 
of her little son’s, and she put her left hand out across the 
sleeping boy in a sudden unrestrainable impulse of sym- 
pathy. 

“Oh, please let me say it!" she whispered, her face 
alight with feeling; “ and don’t think that because I know 
I shall think worse of you than I have done. In all my 
life I was never so sorry for anybody as I am for you ! If 
I thought a word from me would have any weight with 
you I should say, “ Start again, and live it down ! Do 
something good and noble that shall help to bring back 
your lost self-respect, and life will look a different thing 
to you. Leave off trying to forget the past, but try to 
balance the trouble you have brought about by doing some- 
body some good. You would ease your heart that way. I 
know. I have tried it." 

He bent his head and raised her eager, clinging little 
fingers to his lips. 

“ God bless you !" he said gently. “ You are a good, 
kind little woman. I’m glad you know. As for making 
amends, I’ve gone past the time when that was possible. 
There is nothing left for me but to make a finish of it as 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TELLS HIS STORY. 


165 


quickly as I can, and as quietly. Good-by! Tell my 
mother the best story you can about me — she is sure to 
ask a multitude of questions — and if ever you give a thought 
in my direction, be as merciful in your judgment as cir- 
cumstances will allow of. And, for your own comfort, I 
would have you always remember that this little glimpse 
of friendship with you has been like an oasis in the barren- 
ness of my life, like food to the starving, drink to the 
parched, sight to the blind — like everything that is typical 
of the satisfying of a terrible want. The memory of this 
fortnight will always be with me, to assure me that I am 
not the mere brute I thought myself, and that knowledge 
alone is a solace to a man who has gone as deep in the 
mire as I have.” 

He pulled himself up short and dropped her hand, and 
picked up his hat from the small table behind him. 

“And now I’m off!” he said, with a short, hard laugh. 
“ I’m getting sentimental, and that leads on to spooneyism ; 
so I’ll get away before I grow objectionable. I leave for 
Paris to-night. Kiss the little lad for me when he wakes 
up. Bon voyage, Madamo la Bosquet!” 

And he strode across the room and shut the door behind 
him before she could put her remonstrance into words. 

Another second or two and the rattle of the latch of the 
garden gate informed her that he really had gone, without 
protection of any kind, out into that drenching rain. 

She put her cheek down on her boy’s curls, and felt, for 
the first time since her widowhood, that her love for her 
child did not fill her whole heart as it had done. George 
Mirfield’s departure had left a blank in her life she had 
not been conscious of before. 

But even this disquieting discovery faded into the back- 
ground presently before the significance of another. 

In the first rush of warm, generous pity for his broken 
life she had forgotten herself and her own welfare entirely ; 
but now, as she sat alone in the silence of the house, with 
the hissing rain and the distant thunder accentuating her 
solitude, it stole into her mind bit by bit how George Mir- 
field’s presence in Leuville could mean nothing but peril 
for her and her boy, could mean nothing less than the over- 
throw of her present standing at Netley Fallow. 


166 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


It was palpable to her, sharpened as her wits were by 
the knowledge of her own dangerous position, that George 
Mirfield could have had but one motive for his visit to 
Leuville — the burrowing into that past which she was so 
anxious to leave undisturbed. 

She remembered many things now. 

She remembered what he had said in the early days of 
their acquaintance — it was the afternoon he found her on 
the hill-top, with Artie asleep at her side — and she re- 
called, with that odd mingling of the insignificant with 
the important which occurs in moments of the gravest 
thought, that it was then she discovered, in the brilliant 
afternoon sunshine, that the irregularity of his features 
was redeemed by the beauty of his dark-blue eyes — she re- 
called how he had told her that he was at Leuville on busi- 
ness, family business too, for his mother. 

There was only one explanation possible of this business. 
Mrs. George Mirfield could have only one object in sending 
her son to Leuville ; to satisfy her doubts on the subject of 
the birth of Lord Netley’s heir. 

If George had been sent expressly to hunt out the truth 
concerning Arthur’s little son, he certainly had hunted it 
out. There was nothing to prevent his finding out all he 
wanted to know within five minutes of his arrival at Leu- 
ville. 

The memory of his allusion to Arthur’s grave, his 
declaration that he did not intend to enter the cemetery 
at all, seen by this new light, became suddenly suspicious 
to her. 

He had said it to soothe her fears ; and that meant that 
he knew what good reason she had to fear his visit to Hie 
cemetery — meant, in short, that he already knew all the 
cemetery could tell him. 

He had already been to the cemetery and seen the graves 
there ! 

The thought set her shaking like an ague fit. 

Was all her elaborate planning and scheming to go for 
naught after all? Was the Netley household, now so 
happy and contented, to be shaken to its very centre by 
the discovery of the shame and dishonor it had cherished 
in its very midst? Was all her sad, troublous past to be 


GEORGE MIRFIELD TELLS HIS STORY. 


167 


raked up for the edification of the curious and the idle, for 
the mortifying of Lord Netley, for the grieved surprise of 
Charlotte? 

Could she doubt it? 

Kemembering that George Mirfield had been sent here 
by his mother, remembering that mother’s thinly veiled 
antagonism toward her since the first hour of their acquaint- 
ance, remembering what, on the very surface of things, 
the discovery of the truth would mean for George himself, 
could she doubt that immediate exposure lay ahead of her? 

This was the gravest danger which had threatened her 
house of cards, and it found her defenceless and at the 
mercy of her assailants. 

When Artie awoke, refreshed and merry after his com- 
fortable sleep, he found his mother unaccountably dull and 
stupid, and tried to explain the mystery away after his 
usual childish fashion. 

“ Has you got a headache?” he asked in grave concern, 
and when she confessed she had not he looked still more 
perplexed than before. 

All the afternoon through he kept an intermittent watch 
on his mother, as if her unusual preoccupation fascinated 
him. He would stop suddenly in his games and run up to 
her, and plant his elbows on her knee, and, resting his chin 
in his chubby hands, gaze up into her face with a preter- 
natural gravity, which looked like a reflection of her own, 
and ask her some extraordinary question, which showed 
how much his baby mind was exercised on the subject of 
her silence. 

And during all those afternoon hours her thoughts never 
ceased to busy themselves with the future immediately in 
front of her. But there w’as always one ray of comfort 
glimmering at her through the gloom. Whatever hap- 
pened, they could not take her boy from her. 

And, apart from the stern realities of the situation, 
there was another view of matters which hurt and harried 
her in her tenderest part. She was disappointed in her 
friend. A dozen times she told herself that all the shame 
and disgrace she saw ahead would have been far less hard 
to put up with, if it had been brought about by anybody 
but just this one man. It fretted her to think that while 


168 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


he had seemed so frank and honest in his friendship, he 
had been secretly working against her and her hoy. 

Was all the world false and sly? she asked of herself, with 
a sorrowful sigh. Was there no trusting any one at all? 

As the day drew on toward its close her feeling of worry 
and oncoming trouble deepened. 

Amelia was busy with the packing for the early start to- 
morrow, so Molly undressed Artie and put him to bed her 
self, doing it some time before the usual hour, because he 
should be fresh for the morning. 

The child was very gentle and loving to her during this 
performance ; he seemed to know she was in trouble, and 
did his best to make things cheery for her. 

“Is you sorry ’cos we’re going away?” he asked, when 
he was in bed, giving her his good-night kiss. “ Is Mr. 
Smeet coming, too, muvver? I wish he was. I wish I 
could ask him to come. Won’t you go and ask him for me, 
muvver? He always does what you ask him. Won’t you 
ask him, muvver?” 

The baby prattle put a sudden mad idea into her head. 

“He always did as she asked him!” Was it any sort 
of use to make a personal appeal to him? Was it any 
good to ask him to hold his hand for a time, to stay oper- 
ations at least until Lord Netley’s death? He could lose 
nothing by that, and it would give her a little time to pre- 
pare a way before her. Perhaps, though, he had already 
sent his mother the full particulars of her conspiracy. 

Her heart almost stopped beating at the thought. What 
a reception was waiting her at the Fallow if he had 1 It 
was more than she dare face unprepared. She must see 
him at all hazards before he left Leuville, and find out 
exactly what she had to expect. 

She gave her little one another hug and settled him in 
his small bed. 

“ If Artie is very good, and goes to sleep directly,” she 
said, “ I will go down to the village and see if Mr. Smith 
will do what I ask of him.” 

And she turned at once, and put on her hat and cloak, 
and went off down the hill road, on each side of which 
there was a noisy little rill trickling, the only evidence the 
morning storm had left behind. 


A SWEET CUP SUBTLY SEASONED WITH SORROW. 169 


CHAPTER XV. 

“a sweet cup SUBTLY SEASONED WITH SORROW.” 

The sunset that night was of a kind to make the most 
unobservant hold his &eath in wondering admiration. 

Clustered round the spot on the horizon where the flam- 
ing giant had slipped out of sight, were a few small, purple, 
fire-edged clouds. Above them, and on either side, the 
whole western half of the sky was one unbroken sheet of 
pulsating crimson light, the radiance and brilliance of 
which no words could describe, no verbal account could 
convey the faintest impression. 

The beach at Leuville faced full west, and to-night the 
tide was out, and the ribbed sands near up to the street, 
and the ribbed rocks farther out, and the stretch of fret- 
ting waters beyond that again, were barred irregularly with 
alternate stripes and patches of light and shade, vivid 
rose-red wherever the slopes faced westward, and darkest, 
densest slaty shadow on the sides facing toward the shore. 

The extraordinary beauty of the display drew George 
out, almost against his will. As a matter of fact he ought 
to have been packing the few things he had with him — 
that was, if he really meant to catch that night’s train to 
the south. But it did not really matter much — that is to 
say, it did not matter so long as he kept himself out of 
sight of Mme. la Bosquet. He was not going to put her 
to the plague of another emotional interview if he knew it. 
He threw his hat on when he was barely half through his 
dinner, and he stepped out through the window of the 
squalid salle-a-manger^ where he had dreamed those intox- 
icating dreams three nights ago, and walked away in a 
straight line for the distant edge of the tide. 

What fishing industry there was at Leuville had its head- 
quarters at the lower end of the village street, where there 
was a crazy little landing-stage, and where a little river 
had scooped out for itself a channel in the sand, deep 
enough to allow the fishing-boats to get alongside the jetty 
at all states of the tide. 


170 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

So George had the beach all to himself this evening, and 
the solitude and the magnificence of the night drew him 
on and on toward the sea, till the houses behind him looked 
like toys, across the wide stretch of level, lonely shore. He 
had never once glanced behind him as he walked. What 
attention he had to spare from his own dull misery was 
given to the splendor before him. It was not till he 
reached the edge of the water that he glanced round at the 
cold gloom at his back; and then, very greatly to his aston- 
ishment, he saw a figure, in a light-colored, fluttering gar- 
ment, moving in the half-distance between him and the 
irregular line of the village houses. 

At first he could not make out in which direction the 
figure was moving, and it was only when it came between 
him and a black rock that he discovered it was coming 
toward him. Almost at the same moment some peculiar- 
ity in the carriage of the shoulders and head set his heart 
beating with a vague sense of anticipation, and he involun- 
tarily started forward to meet the advancing woman. 

As they drew nearer one another on that lonely expanse, 
which was neither sea nor land, with the crimson glory of 
the departing day all about them, he saw that she lessened 
her hurry and speed, and came toward him slowly and 
more slowly, until at last she stood still at the spot where 
the sand gave place finally to the rocks, and waited his ap- 
proach. And in her face he read as he drew near what she 
had come there for. 

“ Have you, too, come to say good-by to the Leuville 
sunsets?” he asked, as he came within speaking distance, 
treating it as quite an every-day affair that she should come 
at that hour, and alone, to that desolate spot ; and asking 
himself as he spoke how he could spare her the ordeal she 
had set herself. 

At that moment his chief feeling was rage with himself 
for having allowed her to guess at his identity. Why 
could he not have told the story, if he must tell it at all, 
without any allusion to the name of the redoubtable hero? 
Now that she had had time to think matters over, she had 
of course come to the conclusion that he was at Leuville 
for no other purpose than to put an end to her pleasant 
life at Netley. 


A SWEET CUP SUBTLY SEASONED WITH SORROW. 171 

“ It has been nearly the grandest sunset I’ve ever seen,” 
he was saying meanwhile. “ I suppose we are going to 
have another spell of fine weather now the storm has come 
and gone; the pity of it is that we shan’t be here to en- 
joy it.” 

“ Yes, it is a pity,” she answered, but; with such palpable 
absence of manner that it gave him the opening he wanted. 

“You are worrying about something,” he said quietly, 
“ and I think I can make a guess at what it is. Look here, 
little madame, here is a rock without any wet seaweed : sit 
down and rest a minute or two — not longer, because the tide 
will race us for our lives up to the sea-wall if we overstay 
our time. You have been hurrying too much, and it has 
set you shaking a little.” 

She sat where he told her, and lifted her pleading eyes 
to his in a wordless appeal. He had never seen that look 
of entreaty in them before, and it hurt him to see it now. 

“ I don’t believe you came down to see the sunset at all,” 
he said, turning his face away because he did not want to 
see the relief in hers, for fear it might be too much for his 
self-command. “ I believe you came across these nasty wet 
sands on purpose to ask me something — now, just wait and 
let me finish — you are still breathless with your hurry, and 
I’ve got breath enough for both, so we will make use of it. 
I think you got a ridiculous idea in your head — after you 
found out my real name — an idea that my mother’s son 
could not be here, in Leuville, without meaning mischief 
to you. Well ” — he paused and looked round him at the 
fading crimson of sea and sky, and drew a deep breath, 
like a man who takes a big plunge — “ well, please under- 
stand that it is a ridiculous idea, and there’s an end of it.” 

As she listened all sign of agitation and flurry left her 
at a touch. Her surprise held her still and silent, watch- 
ing his profile incredulously, as if she found it hard to be- 
lieve she had heard aright, until he said again: 

“You understand?” 

“ Ho, ” she cried, “ no ; I don’t understand ! I — I can’t ! 
It is impossible you could still mean to stand my friend if 
you knew all there is to know here — in Leuville.” 

“ But I do,” he assured her. “ Why will you insist upon 
details that will only distress you? I know everything 


172 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


there is to know — have known for the last week — ever since 
the evening I stood in the rain outside the window talking 
to you. Don’t you remember what a state of jubilation I 
was in that night about the improvement in my prospects! 
That was before I knew that to accept this good-luck 
meant no end of trouble for you. When I found that out 
things looked very different. I didn’t care so much about 
it when I knew it could only be gained at your expense, 
and so I have decided to leave things as they are. ” 

“You — threw up — such — a future as that — out of — 
friendship for me?” 

She had risen in her great astonishment and moved to 
the front of him, and stood with her hands pressed close 
across her breast, her wide-open, disbelieving eyes fixed 
upon his. 

“Oh, come,” he remonstrated, with an uncomfortable 
little laugh, “don’t let us get tragic over it! You know 
what a purposeless, lazy sort of brute I am. It is simply 
a question of consulting my own ease. When I go away 
from here I shall just forget everything connected with the 
place, except the delightful hours I’ve spent with you and 
the small heir of Netley. No allusion to any other inci- 
dent of my visit will ever pass my lips. And now, I think, 
we had better be moving toward home.” 

But this last suggestion she did not seem to hear. 

“ It is not possible,” she gasped, still standing in that 
attitude of strained self-repression, still watching his reso- 
lute face, with that wondering doubt in her own. “ Why 
should you make this sacrifice for me?” 

“Fudge about sacrifice!” he answered curtly. “Where 
is the sacrifice of giving up a life that I am no more fitted 
.for than you are fitted to drive a plough? Do I look the 
sort of man for a seat in the House of Lords? Do I look 
the sort of man who would enjoy being made president of 
all the local agricultural shows? The sort of man to enter- 
tain all the heavy respectability of the county? The sort 
of man to live a life that should be a decent example to 
my humbler neighbors for miles round — do I, now?” 

In her eyes just then he looked like a man who could do 
anything, however good or great, a veritable hero, but he 
did not give her the chance to say so. 


A SWEET CUP SUBTLY SEASONED WITH SORROW. 173 

“ What sacrifice can there he in giving up a life that 
would be one continual round of distasteful tasks? Sacri- 
fice indeed! As I said before, fudge, my dear Mme. la 
Bosquet — fudge, all of it ! That sunny-haired youngster 
of yours will make a far more satisfactory lord of the manor 
than I should, so come along.” 

She moved a few steps on the homeward way, and then 
paused again. The hrusquerie of his bearing she was 
scarcely conscious of; her mind was too taken up with the 
action itself to trouble about the manner of it. 

“I wish it was possible to offer you some explanation,” 
she began, before they had gone a dozen yards, stopping 
suddenly to face him in her earnestness. “ I don’t like ac- 
cepting this unheard-of sacrifice without letting The 

fact is,” she broke off, making a fresh beginning, as if she 
found the other too dangerous, “ the fact is, I can’t bear 
you to think badly of me ; this awful deceit of mine must 
seem ” 

“Never mind about that,” he interrupted, speaking so 
roughly that she shrank a little at last, and when he saw 
the movement he put his hand out with a sudden radical 
change of bearing. “ Nothing that you did would seem 
wrong in my eyes,” he said gently. “ I may as well say it; 
perhaps it will help to reassure you, and it can’t possibly 
do any harm, since we are scarcely likely to come across 
each other again during the term of our natural lives. 
Things have gone so far with me, little madame, that if I 
found you were the most hardened criminal in the world, 
I should not be able to utter a word of blame. My reason 
has run amuck where you are concerned, and my love has 
taken my judgment captive. Never trouble yourself with 
the idea that I condemn you. I have only the one feeling 
for you, and it overpowers all the rest.” 

She showed none of the ordinary signs of consciousness, 
only turned and walked on again, wringing her hands 
under her cloak. 

“ This makes it harder than ever,” she said presently, in 
— a half-strangled voice — “ makes it so much harder for me 
to accept your unparalleled generosity. To think that I 
have not only come in between you and your inheritance, 
but have robbed you of your peace of mind too!” 


174 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“No, that you have not done!” he declared promptly. 
“ You can’t rob a man of what he hasn’t got. If you have 
made any change in me, it is for the better — remember 
that! Even with the want of you always in my heart, I 
am more at rest since I have known you than I have ever 
been. If you have done nothing else for me, you have 
given me something to think of besides the eternal chances 
of the gaming-table.” 

“ If I could only explain,” she said again, when they had 
gone some distance in silence, harping, woman-like, on her 
wish to stand well in his eyes. 

“ But I don’t want you to explain,” he answered, with a 
tender little laugh. “Let me think evil of you if I can; 
it may help to cure me of my folly. What good could ex- 
planations do, you know?” 

“No, that’s true,” she muttered, as much to herself as 
to him ; “ it would not dp any good.” 

“Then why worry yourself,” he said; “no good can 
come of that either. It would be a great trouble to me to 
think I had brought worry into your life. I shall wish my 
tongue had been cut out before I let you know who I am, 
if you are going to fret yourself about it.” They were 
close up under the sea-wall, and when he took her hand to 
help her up the steps to the road he held it for a little. 
“ Promise me you won’t let the memory of me trouble 
you,” he said. 

“ How can I promise you that?” she asked sorrowfully. 
“ I can promise to try. Do you know what is my greatest 
regret, as I stand here saying good-by to you? That, be- 
cause of this dreadful life of deceit of mine, I dare not 
offer you a word of good advice. It would seem like the 
grossest presumption, from a woman who is living such a 
life, to do the patronizing to a man who is capable of such 
unselfishness as yours, and yet ” 

“ Well? Go on. Say to me just what you would say if 
you were as immaculate as an angel from Heaven.” 

“ It is the gambling,” she said, low and troubled, flush- 
ing, but keeping her sad eyes on his face. 

” You want me to give it up? Would it make you hap- 
pier in your memory of me if I swore never to play again?” 

She did not say anything, but she brought her other hand 


A SWEET CUP SUBTLY SEASONED WITH SORROW. 175 

up and laid it above bis, with a gentle pressure which sent a 
glow all through him. 

“ Then I swear it!” he cried gayly, hut with his eyes full 
of purpose and resolution. “ And now, little madame, go 
home, and be happy. I can watch you up the hill from 
here, and if you make haste I shall just have time to see 
you wave your handkerchief from the garden before I 
start to catch my train. Good-by.” 

She could not gainsay this dismissal, and with a low, 
passionate “ May God bless you as you deserve to be blessed, 
George Mirfield !” she turned and walked away up the hill, 
in the still clear light of the afterglow. 

And George sat on the end of the wall and watched her, 
with his hat pushed to the back of his head and his hands 
in his pockets. 

Now that she was no longer there to see it, there was a 
positively ravenous look in his eyes as they followed the 
fluttering of the pale gray dust-cloak up the steep road, 
and the hands in his pockets were clenched till the nails 
nearly cut into the palms. He was going through a good 
deal in letting her go from him like this, but there was 
plenty of endurance about him, and if it is neither a great 
nor a brilliant quality, it still has its good points. 

While he sat there he heard the weak-chested tooter-a- 
too on the horn which announced the arrival of the even- 
ing post from the next village, and he saw the figure on 
the hillside pause a moment, as it came level with the lit- 
tle mail-cart, and then go on again. 

Another minute and he got the signal he was waiting 
for from the slope on the edge of the cliff, and, answering 
it, he crossed the road to pack his bag and make a start. 

The sooner it was all over now, and left behind forever, 
the better, he was saying to himself. He still had no 
plans nor intentions of any kind. It was only a kind of 
brute instinct which was urging him to get away from the 
place where he had been so nearly happy, where every stone 
and blade of grass was pregnant with the memory of “ the 
might have been.” 

While he was settling his bill with M. Lorton in the hall 
the postman came up ahd delivered a letter for him. 

He saw it was from his mother, and decided that it 


176 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


would keep until he was safely otf on his journey. But as 
he stood there waiting for his change, he broke the envel- 
ope and began twisting the letter to and fro, and while so 
occupied two names in close juxtaposition caught his 
glance. 

He unfolded the letter and read a line or two. Then he 
turned hack to the beginning and walked outside the door, 
and started to read it properly by the fading twilight ; and 
yet, when he had gone right through it, the only part 
which remained in his mind was the passage he had first 
read : “ In spite of what you say, I am certain there is 
something wrong with Mrs. Arthur. Is it possible, do you 
think, that she and the child both belong to Abney Garth? 
Has he substituted them for the real people? They have 
always been suspiciously intimate, and he has made himself 
conspicuous by his championship of her on any and every 
occasion.” 

As he stands there in the quiet little village street, lis- 
tening to the lessening tooter-a-too of the departing post- 
man, such a fierce gust of passion as he has not felt for 
years seizes hold on him. He makes up his^ mind on the 
spot that this guess of his mother’s is the real solution of 
the mystery. Behind him, through the open door, he 
hears Lorton inquiring his whereabouts. But though the 
words strike on his ear they do not reach his understand- 
ing, though, to speak strictly, just now it is doubtful if he 
has an understanding at all; for it is being whirled round 
and round, along with the rest of his intangible entity, in 
the whirlwind of his emotion, till there is no sense left in 
him. 

His love for this Molly de Courcy, or Mrs. Arthur Mirfield, 
or madame Vamie de Monsieur Garth^ or whatever she chooses 
to call herself, would stand any attack but just this one. 
All hia masculinity rises up in swift, hot, mad revolt 
against this assault on its most vital part. He could for- 
give her anything, everything, except that she should — 
during all the time she had been so gentle and sweet to 
him — have belonged to another man. 

Is it for Abney Garth’s child that she has played on his 
forbearance? In any other way she might have hood- 
winked him and he could have overlooked it; it is just this 


A SWEET CUP SUBTLY SEASONED WITH SORROW. 177 

one falseness that has the power to set his heart and brain 
on fire — that she should have let him love her while she 
belonged to another. 

He has correctly described his own mental attitude to- 
ward her ; “ his reason has run amuck where she is con- 
cerned,” otherwise he would see the crass injustice of this 
last accusation. But he does not; he sees nothing, knows 
nothing, in his sudden, mad, unreasoning jealousy, except 
that his love has been played with by this woman for her 
own ends; and the injury is of a kind that calls aloud for 
instant retribution, that pants and yearns to avenge itself. 

Before he is conscious of having formed any intention 
in the matter he is hurrying up the hill, as if his life de- 
pended on the speed he makes. 

By the time he reaches La Bosquet he is“ scant of breath 
and wild of mien,” and the old Frenchwoman who comes 
to the door at his hasty summons looks half scared as he 
puts his inquiry. 

“ But, no,” she tells him, madame is not yet returned.” 

He begins a passionate accusation of falsehood, but 
checks himself before she has grasped his meaning. 

“ Is she — Molly — still in the garden behind the house?” 

In spite of the years of misery he has gone through in 
the time, it is scarcely ten minutes since she waved her 
signal of safety to him. Perhaps she is still there, laugh- 
ing quietly to herself to think how completely she has sub- 
jugated him, and telling herself what a capital story it 
will make to tell to her lover in one of their stolen inter- 
views. 

He turns abruptly from the open doorway as if to return 
the way he came, but he goes round the house instead, 
and strides across the grass toward the arbor, afiame from 
head to foot with resentment. And then, in one brief 
instant, in the fiash of an eyelid, as instantaneously as it 
was born, his anger dies — dies as dead as a door-nail. 

Somebody inside the arbor is weeping with a passion and 
abandon that is almost terrifying, and a choking, yearn- 
ing voice says, in labored gasps : “ George ! — my hero ! — 
my king of men! — my love! — this is my punishment!” 

There follows a sound as of somebody throwing their 
head forward into their hands, and a burst of stified sobs, 
12 


178 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


and then the whisper begins again, “ How shall I bear it, 
how?” 

“ Why bear it at all, little woman?” asks George, coming 
round to the front of the arbor, and gathering the pros- 
trate figure up in his long, strong arms, and holding it in 
a pressure which threatens immediate strangulation. 

Molly shrinks away terrified for a brief instant, and then 
makes no further remonstrance, simply lets herself rest in 
his embrace, with a submission which has a touch of ex- 
haustion in it — rests there, sobbing like a tired-out child. 

“Why bear it at all, Molly?” he whispers again, loosen- 
ing his hold a little, and finding one of her hands and car- 
rying it up to his lips, and then laying it against Lis 
cheek, as if the mere touch of her flesh was a joy to him. 
“ I didn’t dream it was like this with you, my sweetheart,” 
he goes on presently ; “ you showed no sign of it down there 
on the sands just now; I thought all your trouble was for 
me. Even now, Molly, I can hardly believe it, it seems so 
queer that you should care like that for me — queer, but be- 
wilderingly beautiful. And to think how nearly I was 
going away without knowing it! Good God, what an es- 
cape! I couldn’t ask you to love me, you see, Molly, be- 
cause I’d got such a hold on you. I was so desperately 
afraid you would say you cared for me whether you did or 
not, and it would have been such a vile use to make of my 
knowledge. All the same, I’m going to accept your love, 
now you have given it to me unasked, and we will be as 
happy or as miserable together as God meant us to be 
when he made us. Aren’t you just a little afraid of 
throwing in your lot with such a bad ’un all through as 
I’ve been, darling?” 

At the direct question she rouses herself to answer, and 
lifts her white face from his shoulder. 

“Not afraid of that,” she says, “never of that, George. 
I would trust myself to you to the end of the world. And 
yet it can never be, dear, never.” 

“ Why not?” 

She does not answer ; only shakes her head and lays it 
against his shoulder again, as if the question were beyond 
all argument. 

“But, my darling, that is stuff and rubbish,” he ex- 


A SWEET CUP SUBTLY SEASONED WITH SORROW. 179 

claimed, all his stronger nature up in arms against this 
placid resignation. “ If we care for one another so much — 
you do care for me, Molly — I heard you confess as much 
just now, and women don’t humbug themselves about such 
things when they are alone. You do care?” 

She raises her head again, and through the gloom he 
can see her eyes looking at him, straight and steady. It 
is an odd freak of thought that, meeting that still gaze of 
hers, his mind should suddenly leap back to that other 
time when she had looked at him in just that same way, 
with her eyes wide-fixed, her dainty throat stiffening itself 
haughtily. Then she had been rehearsing, for his benefit, 
her rebuke to Lord Netley if he persisted in attacking her 
friend, and George had said to himself that it was a pretty 
piece of acting. What if this time it should be also “ act- 
ing”? 

The question flashes into his mind unsought by him ; 
the insinuation in his mother’s letter is bearing fruit. 

“ You do care, Molly?” he repeats hungrily. 

“ Care?” she echoes. “ I don’t believe a woman ever cared 
so much in this world before. I know I’m giving myself 
away to say such a thing as that; but what does it matter, 
when we are saying such a long good-by as ours is likely to 
be? You see,” she adds, with a new little quiver creeping 
into her voice, “ you aren’t likely to have the chance to 
twit me with my boldness, and so I may as well say all I 
mean. I love you, George; I love you with all the love 
that my woman’s heart is capable of — a love that is like 
wine to the water of my girlhood’s fancy;, a love that 
frightens me with its fierce strength. You believe me?” 

He catches her upturned face between his shaking hands, 
and kisses her eyes, her lips, her brow, her throat, with 
eager, devouring kisses, which tell her what her answer is 
to him. The wave of passion quite carries him away for 
the moment, and she puts up her hands in startled en- 
treaty. 

“ George,” she whispers, “let me go; you frighten me,” 
and the appeal steadies him. 

He pushes her a little from him, and goes out of the 
arbor, over to the very edge of the cliff, and stands there, 
still and silent, till she calls him gently by name. 


180 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


He comes back at the first sound of her voice, and would 
put his arm round her again, but she won’t have it so. 

“No; such indulgences as those are for happy lovers,” 
she says sadly, “ not for you and me, dear. It is written 
in the book of fate that we — for our sins, perhaps, George 
— are to love and live apart, so we won’t make our parting 
harder than we can help.” 

He puts out his hand, as she stands in front of him, and 
lays it on her shoulder; in his present mood he feels he 
must touch her. 

“You said that before,” he says. “If we love one an- 
other, what shall come between us?” His voice is a little 
husky, but he is keeping himself well in hand. “No 
power on earth shall keep me apart from you if you will 
take me.” 

It is very hard for her. In her agitation she gropes 
about with quivering, twitching fingers on either side — an 
instinctive seeking for support, perhaps — and when her 
hand comes in contact with something she plucks and 
worries at it, unconscious that it is a thorny bush, or that 
it is lacerating her finger-tips most cruelly. The torn, 
crushed foliage sends an exquisite fragrance out on the 
night air. She does not smell it then, not to know of it; 
but in all her life to come the smell of a sweet-brier bush 
in the twilight will recall the anguish of that moment to 
her, and the look on his face as he listens to her ultimatum. 

“ It is just what I should have expected you to say,” she 
tells him. “ It is of a piece with all I know of you. 0 
George, what a man you would have made if fate had been 
less cruel to you! I wonder why God arranges these 
things so? If it is true that he chastens those he loves, 
he must love you, dearest, for his hand has been very 
heavy on you. And the chastisement is not over yet, and 
I am the unhappy creature who has been chosen to add 
another stroke to your bitter scourging. George, this 
thing can never, never be, dear, while other things remain 
as they are now. As far as I can see, it seems to me that 
under no circumstances whatever can we hope to be any- 
thing to one another. There is something in my past that 
raises a barrier between me and happy love, and I believe 
from my soul that that barrier will never cease to exist.” 


A SWEET CUP SUBTLY SEASONED WITH SORROW. 181 

The hand on her shoulder tightens its pressure. 

“ Tell me one thing,"” he mutters — that foul suspicion will 
writhe itself into his thoughts again in spite of him ; he 
must crush the hateful thing — “ just one thing, Molly, my 
dear, and I will promise not to ask another question. I’m 
pretty well used to buffets by this time, and I suppose I 
can bear this one as well as the rest, but I want to know 
just one thing.” 

He had meant to mention Garth by name, but when he 
comes to the point he finds it difficult and alters the form 
of his question. 

“ I want you to assure me that this barrier, which you 
say is to separate us for ever, is not — tell me that it is not 
your duty to any other living man that comes between us.” 

“ You mean — I don’t quite understand.” 

“ I mean that, in confessing your love for me, you are 
not breaking faith with another man.” 

“ Ah, no ! a thousand times no ! I never encouraged 
but one sweetheart before — until now, George, and that 
was your cousin, the man I married.” 

“ Thank God for that !” he said solemnly. “ I’m not go- 
ing to ask any promise from you about the future, little 
woman — just be as happy as you can, and if you can forget 
me altogether so much the better for you — but I am glad 
to know that this fortnight has been mine, that these last 
few moments are mine, to know that there is no thought 
of any other man dividing your heart with me. What a 
queer thing it has been, hasn’t it, Molly, our meeting one 
another like this? But it will be queerer still by-and-bye, 
when it is all past and there is only the memory of it left — 
‘A tale that is told! A dream that is past!’ That is how 
it will seem to me. But it is a dream that will always be a 
joy to recall — ‘A sweet cup subtly seasoned with sorrow,’ 
as somebody says. I never saw the meaning of the line be- 
fore; I do now.” 

They stand quite still for a little while. He has both 
her hands in one of his now — later on he will find the 
stains from her bleeding fingers in his palm, and wonder 
how they came there — and the other is still on her 
shoulder. 

The big September moon is beginning to throw a yel- 


182 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


low light on the tops of the trees. The two people stand- 
ing there in that curious stillness are in the shadow as yet, 
but there is enough diffused light for them to see each 
other’s faces, and they look at one another with a greedy 
heart-hunger in their eyes as if they were trying to take a 
picture, each of the other, that shall last them all their 
lives. 

“ You are sure,” says George, scarce breaking the silence 
with a whisper, “ quite sure, Molly, my dear, that there 
is no hope for us — quite sure that this obstacle cannot be 
overcome?” 

“ Quite, quite sure!” she answers, with a quivering sigh, 
and they fall back into silence again. 

They know the last moment has come, but they don’t 
know how to face it. 

They can each feel the other’s pulse beating tempestu- 
ously under their fingers, each hear the other’s breathing, 
coming in quick, irregular, sobbing gasps, and their eyes 
never lose that hungry hold of each other. 

Presently, from inside the house, they hear Amelia try- 
ing to ask of the old French honne if her mistress has not 
yet returned. 

Madame^ nay sparse ee-ceef* she asks, raising her voice 
to a shout in her desire to make herself understood. 

They do not hear the reply, but George murmurs, “ I 
must go!” and still stays on. 

The arbor is between them and the house; they are 
scarcely two yards from the edge of the cliff. The tide 
is coming up quickly now, and they hear the hoarse break 
of each wave and the succeeding splash as it dashes itself 
against the foot of the rock. 

“Molly,” whispers George again, “Molly, my love! my 
own!” 

He draws her gently to him, his face bends forward to- 
ward hers, his arm is round her, the rustle of her quick- 
coming breath is on his mustache. 

With a swift, sudden impulse she, too, leans forward 
and kissed him — once, twice, with quick, passionate ten- 
derness — and then she twists out of his arms and moves 
away a foot or two. 

“Now go,” she says tremulously. “Go at once, while 


A NEW TRAIL. 


183 


.we can bear it. No, don’t touch me again, George, and 
don’t even come near me. You see how near I am to the 
edge ; one hasty move on your part or mine and I should 
go over. Don’t attempt any more farewells. Go!” 

He looks at her face (she is in the moonlight now), and 
he can see every shade of expression in it, and he realizes 
how “near. she is to the edge.” 

“ Go!” she says again. “ Be considerate up to the very 
end, and go!” 

And he turns and goes. 

When his footstep has died away she steals softly and 
stealthily across the grass and round the house, after him, 
meaning to take a last look at him as he swings down the 
hill, but she stops just before she reaches the gate. 

He is leaning face downward on it, and she hears one or 
two groans that sound like the protest of some poor dumb 
brute in mortal agony. 

She crouches behind a bush and waits, with a look in 
her eyes like a hare when the dog is close upon her ; this 
is almost more than she can bear. 

And then, in the moment of her greatest extremity, some 
one is heard unfastening the house door, and the broad 
figure at the gate straightens itself by instinct, passes out 
to the road, and walks off down the hill, without a pause 
or glance behind — straight on, out of sight, into the dark- 
ness and silence of the valley below. 


CHAPTEK XVI. 

A NEW TRAIL. 

Abney Garth came to London to meet Mrs. Arthur 
and escort her back to Netley Eallow. 

Lady Mirfield and Daisy were to remain at Southport 
for a month yet, he told her, and Lord Netlev was eager 
for her return. 

“ The house without ladies or children was like a long 
drawn-out funeral,” he said. 

They broke the journey by a night in town, and during 


184 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


the evening they had plenty to discuss of what had gone on 
during her absence, both at the Fallow and at Leuville. 

When Garth first heard of George Mirfield’s presence in 
the little Normandy fishing-village he looked thoroughly 
startled, but he grew reassured after a time. 

Molly had her own secret to keep on this matter. 

If Abney knew how much George Mirfield had found out 
he would certainly want to know why he had held his hand! 
And since she had no intention of enlightening him on 
this point she must also keep him in the dark on the other. 

So Garth formed the impression that George’s visit to 
Leuville was a matter of a day or two only; that he had 
lounged about the place in his usual aimless fashion, had 
introduced himself to Molly, and made that convenient 
little speech about his distaste for burial-grounds, and gone 
away again without finding out anything that they wished 
to keep hidden. 

“It was a narrow squeak,” he said, when he had heard 
all that Molly meant to tell him; “but the most uncom- 
fortable part of the business to me is that Mrs. George 
should have thought it worth while to send him on the ex- 
pedition. She must have got some idea in her head to 
have thought of such a thing. I wonder now what she 
imagined she was going to do when she started that reprobate 
of her grubbing about in your past.” 

But Molly did not care to pursue the subject. 

For one thing it was hateful to her to hear George run 
down in that calmly superior manner of Abney’s. It was 
natural that two men of such utterly different dispositions 
should not be able to make allowances for each other, but 
that fact scarcely made the respectable man’s patronizing 
allusion to the prodigal’s failings more endurable to listen 
to; and perhaps Abney’s air of forbearance made it all 
the harder. 

“Has the journey tried you very much?” Garth asked 
her, with his observant eyes examining her keenly, “ or per- 
haps it was the associations of the place? Your change 
has certainly not made you look very robust.” 

“ It is only the fatigue of the journey,” she assured him, 
and he wondered rather why his remark should have set the 
color coming and going in her cheeks. “ We had to leave 


A NEW TRAIL. 


185 


Leuville very early. I could not depend upon Amelia nor 
Manon to get us up in time, and I had no sleep to speak of 
in consequence.” 

A fact true enough in itself, though falsely premised. 

There was no doubt about Lord Netley’s pleasure over 
her return. He rose from his chair almost briskly to meet 
her, and made her and the boy sit quite close to his elbow 
while they talked over her stay abroad. 

Molly looked a little better than she had looked yester- 
day, and Artie was simply radiant with health and spirits; 
and under these circumstances the old man was fain to 
forgive her for what he called her “ foreign freak.” 

But Mrs. George Mirfield did not let her off so easily. 

She came strolling up after dinner, with a woollen 
shawl thrown over her head, and caught Molly alone in the 
small inner drawing-room, in the midst of a letter to 
Charlotte. 

At the first sound of her voice Molly’s heart sank into 
her shoes. 

Outwardly they had been sufficiently good friends for 
quite a long time past, but Molly’s eyes had been pretty 
well opened to Mrs. Mirfield’s real feelings toward her now. 
She would not have sent her son to poke and pry about 
Leuville unless she still doubted Molly’s Iona Mes in some 
way. 

“ So you have got back at last,” she said, shaking hands 
and settling herself exactly opposite Molly at the writing- 
table. 

Molly had turned the table round so that the light from 
over the mantelpiece should fall across her shoulder, and 
in doing so had built herself into a corner. When Mrs. 
Mirfield planted herself opposite her in that decisive man- 
ner it must be confessed she felt rather hemmed in. 

“ Quite a long stay you had in that little French place. 
I wonder you didn’t get sick of it and take a run on to 
Paris.” 

“ It would take me a long time to get sick of Leuville,” 
Molly answered gently ; “ you forget how full of associa- 
tions the place is for me.” 

She despised herself as she spoke. What a habit of 
prevarication she was falling into, of mixing up falsehood 


186 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


with truth, until she hardly knew herself when she was 
lying! 

“ Well, yes, I suppose that does make a difference,” Mrs. 
Mirfield admitted, “ though it must really be a positive hole, 
according to my son’s account of it.” 

I dare say it would be dull to a person accustomed to 
the gayeties of Paris,” Molly replied equably, beginning to 
tidy the pen-tray as she spoke. 

“ Oh, it must have been horribly dull ! I can’t think 
how he could have resigned himself to remaining there a 
fortnight.” This with a slight touch of interest creeping 
into the artificial voice and manner. 

Although she professed not to be able to see where Molly’s 
attractiveness lay, she knew well enough that men were not 
equally blind on the subject, and she was intensely curious 
to know George’s impressions concerning his cousin’s 
widow. With his unfortunate inclinations, there would be 
nothing astonishing to her in the discovery that he admired 
this little East End actress. 

“A fortnight?” Molly repeated, with elaborate uncon- 
cern. “Was he there so long? I did not know. Per- 
haps he is fond of fishing. There is plenty of fishing to 
be got there, you know.” 

“ George detests it. There is not enough excitement 
about it. How did you and he get on together, Mrs. 
Arthur?” 

Molly looked down at her scarred finger-tips, still so 
tender to the touch that she could hardly hold a fork. 
How had they “got on” together? she was asking of her- 
self sorrowfully. 

“He was very kind and pleasant,” she answered, “and 
it was nice to meet an Englishman; but I did not stay 
down in the village where the inn is. I stayed in our old 
house up on the hill, and perhaps that prevented our seeing 
much of one another.” 

This answer sounded satisfactory enough, and the ques- 
tioner went on to another branch of the subject. 

“Tell me exactly how he is looking,” she asked. “I 
have not seen him for nearly two years, and I almost 
dread to see him again, for fear he should be changed be- 
yond recognition. He leads such a trying life, poor boy.” 


A NEW TRAIL. 


187 


Her love for her son was the one genuine emotion of her 
life. When she was speaking of him she quite forgot her 
fine manners, her anxiety to pose as the very essence of cul- 
ture and refinement, and become for the time estimable 
and almost likable. “ I dare say you have heard plenty of 
people discuss his immorality and wickedness,” she went 
on, “ but I don’t suppose you have ever heard anybody 
make an excuse for him on the score of his youth. It is 
not that he was so much worse than other young men, but 
the after-consequences of his folly were so disastrous that 
they set public opinion right against him, and he has had 
to suffer for it, and he has suffered, Mrs. Arthur.” 

“ He has indeed,” assented Molly with heartfelt warmth, 
and then, recognizing all that her words admitted, she 
tried to withdraw, and in doing so reopened the other’s sus- 
picions. “ That is to say, any man with a conscience at 
all is bound to suffer in such a case,” she added with sudden 
breathlessness. 

She felt Mrs. Mirfield’s black eyes boring into her as she 
sat. Her fingers, still fidgeting with the pen-tray, began 
to tremble, and set the pens rattling. She withdrew her 
hand hastily, and took to thrumming on the table edge in- 
stead. Why had she dropped her guard the moment the 
other had dropped her attack? So long as Mrs. Mirfield 
had acted on the offensive she had been safe, but when 
George’s mother grew natural and frank Molly had slipped 
into the error of daring to be natural too. 

“Of course!” There was an element of dryness in the 
tone of this reply which Molly was keenly conscious of. 
“ And George has a conscience, though it is the fashion to 
deny him even that negative good quality. It was very 
wonderful, though, that you should have discovered it dur- 
ing your extremely slight intercourse.” 

Molly sat silent. She was in such a stkte of tumult at 
the moment that she only had just enough presence of mdnd 
to hold her tongue. She was glad the lamp was at her 
back. She put her elbow on the table and leaned her head 
forward in. her hand, and sat watching the thrumming 
of her fingers, hearing her heart-beats like tlie distant 
thud of a steam-hammer. 

And Mrs. Mirfield, watching her, saw there was some- 


188 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


thing more in the acquaintanceship between George and 
her than she chose to have known, though, oddly enough, 
here suspicions did not now glance in the direction of love- 
making. It must he something far more tremendous and 
wicked. She had grown so accustomed to thinking of 
Molly as a schemer and conspirator that at last she could 
scarcely think of her in any other light, and judged all 
her actions from that standpoint. 

“ Did you leave my son at Leuville when you came away?” 
Mrs. Mirfield began again. 

And Molly was able to answer truthfully enough that 
she did not know. 

“ I have an idea that the last time I saw him he said 
something about leaving at once,” she told her, glad to be 
able to say something “ but whether he really did leave be- 
fore we did I don’t know.” 

“ Very vexatious if he did; he will have missed my last 
letter, and it was important that he should get it before 
he left. I asked him to get me a photograph of Arthur’s 
grave.” 

“ But he could not get such a thing in Leuville.” Molly 
was herself again now, armed cap-a-pie and thoroughly on 
guard at all points. “ Why did you not ask me, Mrs. Mir- 
field? I would have had a man over from Kouen and had 
one taken for you. I had no idea you were so interested 
in the subject.” 

“ Oh, it was not of such vital importance as all that,” she 
answered, with a distrustful look at Molly’s self-possessed 
face. “You have not told me yet how my son was 
looking.” 

“No, you took me oil to another subject; but I don’t 
think I can tell you now. I don’t know how he generally 
looks, you see. He did not give me an impression of being 
in bad health, he* looked strong and vigorous, and yet, the 
first time I saw him — no, the second time ; the first I did 
not notice him at all — I was struck with the restless, un- 
satisfied look in his face.” 

Mrs. Mirfield sighed; for the moment she had forgotten 
Molly again in the other stronger interest. 

“ I wish I could get him home for a month or two,” she 


A NEW TRAIL. 


189 


said. ^ “ I wish the earl would ask him for the pheasant 
shooting next month. I wonder if you would suggest it 
to him, Mrs. Arthur?” 

“ Oh, I couldn’t do that!” cried Molly, all taken aback 
by the suggestion ; and Mrs. Mirfield rose and took her 
shawl off the back of her chair with a sudden return of all 
her magnificent manner. 

“ Of course you could not!” she said frigidly. “ It was 
absurd of me to imagine it for a moment ; naturally it is 
the last thing in the world you would do, to attempt a rec- 
onciliation between the earl and the only male relative he 
has in the world.” 

“ The only male relative?” repeated Molly. “ What has 
Artie done to be left out in the cold?” 

But Mrs. Mirfield took no notice of the smiling protest, 
and went on muffling her head in her shawl, and took a 
grudging leave of the pale, tired-looking little woman be- 
hind the writing-table. 

Molly sat on there quite a long time after her visitor 
had departed. She was sorry that the first request Mrs. 
Mirfield had ever made of her had been so impossible to ac- 
cede to. She would have liked to oblige George’s mother; 
but just the one thing she had asked was impossible. 
What would George have concluded if Lord Netley had told 
him that it was to oblige her, Molly, that he had asked 
him to the Fallow? She grew warm at the thought. 
Further intercourse between them was to be avoided at all 
costs. Through all her pain and misery that was the one 
fact that stood out high and dry beyond the ebb and fiow 
of argument or indecision. For them safety and separa- 
tion, and, alas ! suffering, were synonymous terms, and si- 
lent endurance was all that was left to them. 

When Mrs. George Mirfield reached home that evening 
she found a letter from her son, which had arrived during 
her absence. 

In writing this letter George’s one idea had been to put 
a definite end to his mother’s investigations at Leuville. 
Stop those and he stopped the threatened danger to Molly. 
Acting on this notion, he had gone in for a wholesale batch 
of lies; 


190 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ I have poked and pried and grubbed into the domestic 
affairs of le menage Mirfield during its existence here,” he 
wrote, “ until there is not a dish that they ever had for 
dinner, or a gown that Arthur ever brought his wife from 
Paris that I don’t know the make of, and all I can say is 
that, during their stay here, nothing happened to give the 
slightest color to your suspicions concerning the present 
heir. You must go farther back for your evidence, and 
get on an earlier trail. The Leuville covers have drawn 
blank.” 

There was no “ happy medium” about George Mirfield’s 
doings. Whether they were good or bad, he was always 
prodigal of his efforts. Moderation, even in lying, was ap- 
parently a doubtful virtue in his eyes, and his unlimited 
mendacity answered its end so far that it drew his mother’s 
suspicions completely away from the Norman fishing- 
village, as he had meant it should. 

But suspicion of Molly had become such a rooted habit 
with Mrs. George that, removed from one portion of her 
life, it instantly fixed upon another. 

“ You must go farther back for your evidence, and get 
on an earlier trail,” was the line in her son’s letter which 
most impressed her. 

She slept with the words in her mind. They were there 
when she awoke in the morning, and before she had been 
awake ten minutes she had formed a new resolution. 

The task of proving the shameless fraud which was being 
practised on Lord Netley was evidently beyond her. She 
would have to appeal to her plebeian brother for his help 
after all. It was regretable, but unavoidable. It would 
be decidedly unpleasant to have Clem making himself at 
home at her elegant little dinners, the leading feature of 
which was “culture,” but then the counterbalancing good 
of establishing George’s claim to the succession was more 
than worth the sacrifice on her part ; and if anybody in the 
world was likely to grub out a secret successfully it was the 
retired lawyer who occupied those dusty chambers in Gray’s 
Inn and turned a nimble penny in the “ private advance ” 
line. 

Having once made up her mind to the disagreeable un- 


A NEW TRAIL. 


191 


dertaking, she set about it at once, knowing that the more 
she looked into it the less she would like it. 

She went up to London that afternoon, and early the 
next morning rapped at the outer door of Clem’s sky par- 
lors, while that gentleman was still discussing his matu- 
tinal rasher, with a note-book and pencil on the table at 
his elbow and his letter file and ready reckoner within 
reach. 

When Mrs. Mirfield entered the room, in reply to his 
unceremonious “ Come in!” he affected not to know her. 
He rose abruptly, drawing the girdle of his dusty dressing- 
gown a little tighter round his hips in a way which exalted 
the action into an unspoken apology for his unconventional 
attire, and moved a chair forward, with a bow and afiourish 
which would have done honor to a Swiss waiter at a Strand 
restaurant. 

“ This unexpected visit has taken me unawares, madam,” 
he commenced, in a polite but business-like manner ; “ you 
have found me, so to speak, en famille. My advertised 
office hours are ten till two ; it is now ” — referring to a 
“Waterbury,” hung on a black ribbon round his neck — 
“just twenty minutes past nine. tTnder these circum- 
stances apologies from me would be superfluous. Be seated, 
and let me know what I can do for you.” 

“ You know me well enough, Clem,” answered Mrs. Mir- 
field — and it was creditable to her discernment that she 
had left her habitual affectation outside the door of her 
brother’s premises, and still further creditable that she 
made no attempt at cordiality in her greeting of him — 
“ you know me well enough ! There is no need to play the 
buffoon for my benefit.” 

“ God bless my soul and body!” he cried in pretended as- 
tonishment, “ if it isn’t my aristocratic relative the Honor- 
able Mrs. George Mirfield. Dear me, dear me ! If you 
had only given me notice of your visit I would have had 
the place purified a bit. I don’t think you had better sit 
in that chair. Last night it was occupied the whole even- 
ing through by the son of one of our large West End tailors ; 
there might be contamination in the contact. Now, if 
you could contrive to climb up on the high stool over by 
the desk there under the window it might be worth the 


192 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD, 


extra trouble and discomfort, for his grace the Duke of 
Bradford’s second son sat there for about ten minutes yes- 
terday afternoon, while he signed some papers, and he 
may possibly have left some odor of ducal dignity behind 
him. It’s worth the effort I should say, from your point 
of view, even if you do make rather a fool of yourself in 
the attempt to get up so high.” 

Mrs. Mirfield’s dark skin went an angry red, but she 
managed to keep her temper. 

When you have exhausted your delicate wit at my ex- 
pense perhaps you will allow me to explain what brought 
me here,” she said. “ And if, meantime, you could do vio- 
lence to your own prejudices so far as to have the window 
down an inch or two I should be really grateful. The 
atmosphere is too suggestive of last night’s grog and 
tobacco to be pleasant.” 

He laughed as he went over and threw the window up 
and let the soft September sunshine into the room. 

The extra light did not improve the look of things. 
The “ lady ” who looked after Mr. Clement Borthwicke’s 
rooms knew her customer’s fads and fusses to a nicety, and 
it was her boast that she could fit herself to them all. 

“ Them as likes fresh air and cleanliness,” she was in the 
habit of saying, “ gets fresh air and cleanliness, and it’s 
’ard if them as likes dust and peace and quietness can’t 
’ave their likings looked after too.” 

Mr. Clement Borthwicke was among those who liked 
“dust and peace and quietness,” and, however he might 
have feared about the two last named, it was evident that, 
as far as the dust was concerned, his “ liking ” was exceed- 
ingly well looked after. 

There was no sign of anything lacking in the room, but 
there was a general air of “grubbiness,” which told its 
own story of habitual neglect. 

Mrs. Mirfield glanced round at the untidy litter of hats 
and coats and boots and pipes and newspapers with an air 
of distaste. There was only one tidy spot in the room, 
and that was the large office desk under the window ; here 
everything was in scrupulous order. 

“Does that suit you better?” asked the gentleman in 
the gray felt dressing-gown, as he turned back to the 


A NEW TRAIL. 


193 


breakfast- table again, followed, through the open window, 
by the twittering of the numberless sparrows who made a 
playground of the quiet inn gardens. “ You see I am not a 
dweller in the marble halls of the nobility, as you are, so I 
have to make the one room serve me for breakfast-parlor, 
office, and smoking den, though, mind you, as far as the 
office business goes, I have to mind my p’s and q’s. If the 
authorities knew all the little ins and outs of my particular 
branch of industry I expect I should get short notice to 
quit. You won’t mind my finishing my breakfast, I hope. 
I must get the table cleared by ten.” 

And he fell to work again without an inquiry or an ex- 
pression of interest concerning either her health or her 
business. 

For the last fifteen years she had cut him to please her- 
self ; now she had suddenly remembered his existence, also 
to please herself, and she could continue to please herself 
as to the manner in which she stated the object of her 
tardy visit. 

“ Of course it is business that has brought me here,” she 
said presently, when she had watched the consumption of 
bread and marmalade and coffee in silence for a minute or 
two — not without an inward shrinking from the uncouth 
hurry of the performance. “ I may as well say it, and save 
you the trouble — I should not have come if I did not want 
something of you, and, more than all, I should not have 
come if I was not willing to pay a fair price for what I want. ” 

He looked up with a twinkle in his little black eyes — 
very unlike hers they were, in everything but color. 

“ That’s one to you,” he observed, chuckling in genuine 
enjoyment. “ Mixing with the nobs has sharpened up your 
wits a bit, old lady. You are getting quite a woman of 
business. What can I do for you? I hope, for your sake, 
it’s not an advance you want — Master George can’t have 
drained you dry, after all the pains the governor took to 
tie your income down on yourself.” 

“No,” she answered,” it is not money I want — not 
directly, that is. George contrives to exist on the allow- 
ance I make him, or if he doesn’t he never applies to me 
for more. What I want you to do is to make a few in- 
quiries concerning Arthur Mirfield’s marriage ” 

13 


194 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“What!” he interrupted. “With the little burlesque 
actress from the Camel and Howdah? You don’t mean to 
say that is turning out shady after all? Where is the 
loose screw?” 

“ That is just what I want you to find out. ” 

“Well, but what grounds have you to go upon? You 
must have some reason for suspecting mischief.” 

Mrs. Mirfield took a sealed envelope from her small hand- 
bag, and opened it and passed the enclosure to him. 

“ There have been several suspicious things about Mrs. 
Arthur and her little boy — things trifiing enough in them- 
selves, but significant enough when they come to be put 
together. One of the servants at the Fallow has been 
dinning them into my ears for more than a year past, but 
I would not listen to her, or, at any rate, would not be led 
into taking any serious notice of her stories. At last she 
got so angry with me for declaring she must be mistaken 
in what she heard that she copied down the next suspicious 
thing that was said and brought it to me, and asked me 
if there could be any mistake about the meaning of 
that.” 

He took the piece of paper she held out to him and read 
from it aloud:* 

“ I am quite certain that, sooner or later, it will be 
found out that my boy is not Arthur Mirfield ’s lawful 
son.” 

He gave a soft little whistle and turned the paper over ; 
but Mrs. Mirfield had pasted it on a clean sheet of paper, 
and the few words written shakily in pencil were all that 
was visible. 

“ Do you mean to say that somebody heard Mrs. Arthur 
Mirfield say that?” 

“ Yes, and wrote it down there and then, so that she 
should not possibly make a mistake about it. I’ve brought 
you the very piece of paper itself, because I thought it 
would be more convincing than if I copied it; but you 
must not make use of it to get at the girl herself. I 
promised her I would not bring her into it at all.” 

Clem read the words again. 


A NEW TRAIL. 


195 


“ Of course you have formed some theory of your own 
on the matter,” he said. “ What is your idea?” 

“I haven’t an idea left on the subject,” she answered 
him. “ I’ve satisfied myself that she really was married 
to Arthur Mirfield, and that she really had a son, and that 
that son is not dead ; and there I seem to come to a dead- 
lock. There must be some meaning in the words if we 
could only find it out.” 

“ And if there is any meaning in them Master George 
would step into the title and estates at the old man’s death. 
It must be thundering tantalizing to you, my dear, not to 
be able to put your finger on the weak place in this young- 
ster’s claim.” 

She said nothing to this. There was a touch of the cat 
in Clem’s nature. He must be allowed his vicious little 
claws and dabs if she wanted his help at all. 

He sat still for a minute or two thinking, with his elbow 
among the crumbs of his breakfast, and his fingers bury- 
ing themselves every now and then among the thick stub- 
ble of iron-gray hair which stood like a cheval de frise 
above his deeply lined brow. 

“ You’ve seen her marriage certificate and the child’s 
certificate of birth?” he asked presently, still burrowing 
busily among his hair as if he were fetching his ideas 
from their hiding-place with his fingers; “ and the boy is 
really her boy, not a substitute? Then there is only one 
thing that I can see — she was possibly already a married 
woman when she met Arthur Mirfield.” 

Mrs. Mirfield gasped, and sat looking and listening with 
open mouth. 

“ Some of these theatrical people are a queer lot, don’t 
you see, you know” — this odd saying was pronounced 
“ doncherseeyerno,” and was a very favorite expression 
with him when he was really interested in the matter in 
hand — “ married people are so often divided, one in one 
company and one in another, that the marriage tie slackens 
considerably. Now, this woman, for instance — it’s as likely 
as not that at some time or other in her career she went 
through the marriage ceremony with some actor fellow, 
before she thought there was a chance of her drawing such 
a prize as the Honorable Arthur Mirfield out of the matri- 


196 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


monial lucky-bag, and very likely husband number one is 
still walking about the world, if we could only know the 
truth.” 

“And do you think she knew it when she married 
Arthur?” asked Mrs. Mirfield. 

“Maybe, and maybe not. She may have thought he 
was dead, and discovered her mistake afterward.” 

Mrs. Mirfield drew a big breath, and laid a well-gloved 
hand on the table before her as if to steady herself. 

“That is it, you may depend!” she said. “And that 
might help to account for what I never could understand 
before — that Abney Garth should lend himself to the de- 
ception. He has such ridiculously high-flown notions of 
justice, and if the boy is really Arthur Mirfield’s son, and 
if this Molly de Courcy has persuaded him that she is a 
deeply injured woman, he would be quite likely to lend 
himself to a scheme for giving the child the same advan- 
tages as if there had been no mistake.” 

“ Oh, the gentleman secretary is in the swim, is he?” 

“ Oh, yes. He has been Mrs. Arthur’s warmest ally all 
through.” 

“Ah! Then you may depend upon it the young woman 
has made out an excellent case for herself. He wouldn’t 
risk his position with the earl unless he felt pretty sure 
of his ground, that is self-evident. We shall have to be 
careful not to put them on their guard, ^r we may spoil 
our own game.” 

“ And what do you mean to do, Clem?” 

“Well, I shall have to grub my way into the young 
woman’s theatrical career, do the friendly dodge among 
the people down at the Camel and Howdah, don’t you see, 
you know, and find out where she was before she came 
there, and so work backward along the route. And when 
I come upon the evidence of a previous marriage I will 
sell it to you at my own price. And now you must hook 
it, for I’m expecting some fellows here at half-past ten, 
and my moral character would be lost for ever if they found 
a woman with a bonnet like that in my rooms at this time 
in the morning. You must just go back to Yorkshire, 
and keep as quiet and harmless as a dove, and leave me 
to work this affair my own way. If you pick up any hints 


RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


197 


that are likely to be useful, send them on, but in all other 
respects leave me to myself. I shall work all the better if 
I’m not bothered.” 

Having gained her end, Mrs. Mirfield would fain have 
made some little advance toward civility, but Borthwicke 
would have none of it. 

“This is a business visit,” he said, “and we’ll stick to 
business, if you please. My health and happiness has got 
nothing to do with establishing the illegality of the marriage 
between Arthur Mirfield and Miss de Oourcy, so we’ll leave 
them out of the question for the present. The subject 
isn’t one of absorbing interest either to me or you, and if 
we decide to dispense with politeness in all business inter- 
views from first to last we shall save an enormous waste of 
time. So, good-day to you, ma’am,” he finished, holding 
the door open, “ and when I have anything to communi- 
cate I’ll write.” 

Mrs. Mirfield took the hint at once and went. In her 
heart she was hugely relieved to have their intercourse 
placed on this footing, and hoped most devoutly that he 
might hold to his present view on the matter all through 
the piece. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 

The young woman who sold the programmes and directed 
the people to their seats in the dress circle — by courtesy so 
called — at the Camel and Howdah Theatre had a windfall 
that evening. 

It was about nine o’clock, and the second act of the 
highly colored melodrama then on the bills at that particu- 
lar home of Thespis was just over, when a man in evening 
dress — a by no means common object in that place — saun- 
tered in and leaned his elbows on the breast-high partition 
running round the back of the seats and leisurely surveyed 
the house. 

His evening clothes fitted him decently,, and his shirt- 
front was neither creased nor soiled, but yet there was an 


198 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


absence of that absolute faultlessness of detail which in- 
variably marks the appearance of the gentleman in dinner 
attire. If a respectably brought up man dresses for the 
evening at all it is an acknowledged rule that he does it 
well. 

This short-necked, thick-built man, with the clean- 
shaven, irregular features, the shrewd, twinkling black eyes, 
and the bushy, iron-gray hair, had neither a pin in his 
shirt-front nor a crease in his coat, but, in some indescrib- 
able way, he lacked that air of exquisite neatness which 
is one of an Englishman’s little advantages over his con- 
tinental neighbors. 

But the young lady with the programmes had not 
sufficient experience in the matter of “ immaculate finish” 
to discover this slight blemish for herself. To her a 
stranger in “ a swallow-tail” was one of three things — a 
waiter, a manager from some neighboring place of enter- 
tainment, or a swell ; and since this man with the bushy 
gray hair looked like neither of the first two, he must be 
the last. 

Acting on this hypothesis, she put on her politest bear- 
ing for the stranger’s edification. 

” Could she get him a seat?” she asked in a hoarse croak, 
brought about by constant exposure to draughts. 

“ No; he would rather stand for the present.” 

“ Would he take a programme?” 

“ No ; he was not greatly interested in the piece. He 
would be able to find out quite as much as he wanted to 
know about it without plunging into the reckless extrava- 
gance of a penny programme.” 

This was so palpably meant as a joke that the young 
lady felt emboldened to snigger. 

“ Perhaps you know more about the piece than any of 
the rest of us,” she said, with a knowing look; “last week 
I arst a gentleman to buy a programme, and he turned on 
me like an eagle an’ told me not to bother him about the 
ridickerlus piece, an’ I found out afterward as he was the 
man that wrote it.” 

“ Bless you, no ! I never did anything half so clever as 
writing a play,” answered the gentleman, with free and 
easy candor; “my talent don’t lean in that direction at 


RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


199 


all. Just now I’m a good deal more interested in the 
playhouses themselves, and the people that play in ’em, 
than in the pieces. I’m writing a book about the London 
theatres, and I’m busy picking up all the information I 
can. I ’ll get you to take my card in to the manager pres- 
ently, and asked him to give me an interview.” 

The young lady glanced cautiously round her before she 
answered. The audience, most of whom had left their 
seats for a breath of air between the acts, were hurrying 
back to their places, and she looked keenly in and out 
among the crowd streaming past, as if to assure herself 
that she was not being watched, before she ventured to 
continue the conversation. 

“ Our acting manager is such a harrying little toad,” 
she croaked; ‘‘ if he saw me a-talking to you he would nag 
at me for half an hour for neglecting my duties. If it’s 
information about the theatre you want, sur, take my ad- 
vice and go to that tall thin man with the long gray beard 
who’s leaning over the back round in the corner there 
looking straight at us. The gentleman that’s got the 
theatre now has only had it a year, and he knows no more 
about theatrical things than I know about the Queen’s 
drawing-rooms. He’s a business gentleman from the city 
that’s taken the theatre just for an amusement, and a 
nice old mess he’s making of it, thanks to the hands he’s 
fallen into.” 

“ And the tall gentleman with the gray beard, who is he?” 

“ He’s the author of our pantomimes. He’s written the 
pantomimes for this theatre for the last ten years or more, 
and he used to write a lot of the pieces, too, until this new 
management left off putting new pieces on and took to 
having the country companies up for a week at a time in- 
stead. They say he’s wonderful clever with his pen.” 

” Why, he is the very man I want, then. What’s his 
name?” 

“ Olaxton, sir. ‘Joe’ Olaxton he’s generally called. He 
was a great favorite with the stock company here in the 
old days. The ladies used always to call him ‘Uncle Joe.’ 
They "was all just like a happy family in those times, 
you see.” 

“I see.” He fumbled in his pocket and found a half- 


200 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

crown. “ I’m much obliged to you for putting me in the 
right road,” he said. “ You have saved me the waste of a 
whole evening. Here, buy yourself a mustard leaf, or 
some pleasant little luxury of the sort, and get rid of that 
croak of yours. You’ll never get a husband with such a 
voice as that.” 

She began to laugh, but checked herself hurriedly as a 
very small man, with a very large and very highly glazed 
shirt-front, and a very big paste stud, and a very shiny 
hat, pushed open the swing-glass door at the top of the 
staircase and swaggered in with the glance of an emperor 
and the strut of a cockatoo. 

The programme lady’s laugh died away huskily in her 
throat, and, hiding, the half-crown in her palm, she hur- 
ried away, as if bent on selling the whole week’s pro- 
grammes in the next ten minutes, from which Borthwicke 
concluded that the gentleman with the coruscating shirt 
button was “ the harrying little toad” before alluded to. 

This flashy little popinjay favored Borthwicke with an 
inquisitive stare, which would probably have ended in an 
attempt at a closer acquaintance had not that gentleman 
turned his shoulder on him and made straight for Claxton. 

This hack writer was as slovenly and heedless of his per- 
sonal appearance as Borthwicke himself at his worst, but 
his face was the face of a gentleman, and there was a dig- 
nity in the calm directness of his glance which no amount 
of outward adornment could have produced. 

Borthwicke’s experienced eye saw this in a twinkling. 

“Good evening, Mr. Claxton,” he said, taking a card 
from his pocket-book and offering it at once. “ I have 
come to you on the cadge, so I may as well be open about 
it. You saw me speaking to the attendant just now ; I 
told her I was in search of information about the past his- 
tory of this theatre, and she said you were the very person 
to give it if you would.” 

Claxton lifted his shabby hat in response to the other’s 
salutation, and listened with polite attention. 

“You are a writer?” he asked; “for the magazines, 
perhaps?” 

“ Well, not exactly; but I am collecting facts for a man 
who is. I get the facts together, and the other man puts 


RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


201 


them into form. You have been connected with this place 
for some time?” 

“ For the last ten years.” 

“ Then you must have known a little girl that I met 
after her marriage — a Molly de Oourcy.” 

“ I knew her quite well.” 

‘‘ Charming little creature, wasn’t she?” 

The curtain was up, and two or three people near them 
scowled round over their shoulders at the two men talking 
at the back. 

Borthwicke lowered his voice. 

“We’re interrupting the play,” he said; “is there a 
place anywhere handy where we can have a cooler in peace? 
It’s too hot to breathe here.” 

“ There is the bar,” answered Claxton. “ It will be quiet 
enough there while the act is on.” 

“ Will you come and poison yourself?” 

Claxton accepted the friendly invitation, and having 
done their best, with the assistance of the bar proprietor, 
to carry it out, Borthwicke turned back to his topic again. 

“ Yes, that little De Courcy was a delightful little creat- 
ure. I never saw her on the stage. Could she act?” 

“ I believe she would have made a first-class actress.” 

“ Ah, yes, of course ; she was quite at the beginning of 
her career when she got married. Was this engagement 
her first?” 

“No; she was at the Lyceum at Birmingham before 
she came here. Philpott — the low comedian there — picked 
her out from among the ‘extra ladies’ to say a line or two 
in a gag-scene of his, and saw her talent at once. He got 
her in for the small speaking parts after that, and when I 
went down to see him about the part I was writing for 
him in that year’s pantomime he brought Molly under my 
notice, and talked me into ‘writing in’ a little part for 
her. That was the history of her engagement here.” 

“Yes, I remember now,” said Borthwicke, with the 
manner of a man who recalls the past by degrees, and 
making a chance shot on the theory that it must hit some- 
thing. “ I heard something about the Birmingham man — 
people said queer things about little Molly over that busi- 
ness.” 


¥ 


202 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ Then they said lies !” came the prompt reply. “ Who- 
ever was to blame, Molly was innocent of wrong-doing. 
She was treated shamefully. It was one of the worst cases 
I ever knew.” 

“ Oh, well, I only know what I was told, don’t you see, 
you know,” answered Borthwicke in an apologetic tone. 
Mentally his ears were at full-cock over these reminiscences 
of Mrs. Arthur Mirfield’s professional life; this old theatri- 
cal hand would not get in a fuss for nothing ; there was 
something behind this Philpott story. “ I’m only going 
on hearsay. When an actor busies himself to get special 
parts written for a girl, so that he may not be separated 
from her, it is bound to set people’s tongues wagging, you 
know.” 

Olaxton drew his brows together thoughtfully, and his 
next question was put abruptly, as if it were the result of 
a sudden resolution. 

“ Did you ever hear real harm hinted at between her 
and Philpott?” he asked. “I know how fond people are 
of playing battledore and shuttlecock with a woman’s good 
name, more especially if she is connected with the stage. 
They get hold of half a story — always the worst half, by 
the way — and form their conclusions on that, without 
troubling themselves to inquire if there might not be some 
extenuating circumstance at the back of it. Did you ever 
hear there was anything more than a passing partiality be- 
tween Philpott and Miss de Courcy?” 

“ Well,” said Borthwicke, and then stopped, with a shrug 
of the shoulder and a downward curve of the lip which 
answered the question plainly enough without committing 
him to anything. 

“ Very well, then,” returned Olaxton decisively. “ Since 
you have heard so much, I will take up the cudgels for 
the absent lady and tell you the rest. When Miss de 
Courcy came here with Philpott to play that pantomime 
engagement, she believed she was his wife.” 

“ Sardanapalus!” ejaculated Borthwicke, too elated to 
suppress all outward sign of excitement; but he contented 
himself with the one word, and Olaxton went on without 
heeding the interruption. 

“ It was a very bad business — a very bad business indeed ! 


BAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


203 


And the worst point in the whole story was that the poor 
little girl was so clean gone on the brute — her first love, you 
know, Mr. Borthwicke, and you know what women are like 
in that respect. When she came to me and told me he 
had just confessed that the marriage ceremony between 
them was all bunkum, that he had another wife living, she 
was thoroughly heart-broken.” 

“A case of bigamy, then,” said Borthwicke, his jaw 
dropping at this sudden annihilation of his hopes. If the 
Philpott marriage was not legal the one with Mirfield was, 
and the boy at the Fallow was legitimate after all. “ Why 
didn’t she take the case into court?” 

“ She liked Philpott too well for that.” 

“Well, she didn’t fret long anyway,” observed Borth- 
wdcke viciously. He was feeling very savage. To have 
had this prize under his very hand, and then to have had 
it withdrawn again before he could close his fingers on it, 
was the very acme of tantalization. “ Why, she must 
have married Mirfield within a very short time of her heart- 
breaking discovery. It was during her first season here, 
wasn’t it?” 

“Just so. It was Mr. Mirfield’s attentions that made 
Philpott own up to his villainy. He was down here night 
after night, with his flowers and his presents, hanging 
about after Miss de Oourcy, till she was fairly driven into a 
corner and asked Philpott to let her tell Mr. Mirfield that 
she was a married woman. It was then that Philpott 
turned round on her and told her he had another wife 
knocking about somewhere, though he couldn’t put his 
hand on her just then. And when the poor little girl be- 
gan to upbraid he coolly advised her to ‘go in for the young 
swell, since it seemed he really meant business.’ ” 

“A nice man for a small tea-party,” remarked Borth- 
wicke. “ I suppose there really was another wife, Mr. 
Claxton? You don’t think she was a mere creature of Mi. 
Philpott’s fervid imagination, created to get rid of Miss de 
Courcy when there was such an excellent chance offering?” 

“ Heaven only knows ! The idea had never occurred to 
me. I should not be surprised. Philpott was blackguard 
enough for anything, and his fancy for Molly had been long 
over and done with. You see, the poor little girl would 


204 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


try to keep him steady — away from the drink and the 
betting — and he found it irksome to have a guardian angel 
always at his elbow.” 

“No doubt,” observed Borthwicke dryly ; “ more especially 
a guardian angel with rights of her own. I don’t suppose 
consideration for Miss de Courcy would have had any weight 
with him in any case. If he saw a chance to rid himself 
of a wife who was too conscientious in her ideas of duty he 
would take it, without a thought of the consequences to 
her. You see, if that other wife was only a myth, if De 
Courcy was really married to Philpott, she was never 
Arthur Mirfield’s wife, and any children by that marriage 
would be illegitimate. The whole question of Mrs. Mir- 
field’s present position turns on the other question. Had 
Philpott a wife living when he married Molly de Courcy? 
It’s rather an interesting case — reminds me of Lord Buf- 
ton’s divorce case. You remember it? When he was a 
lad in his teens he married a woman ten years older than 
himself, and a dreadfully bad lot into the bargain. Well, 
his father, the present Duke of Draffley, sent the boy away, 
and pensioned the lady off, and some years afterward they, 
the duke’s spies, found evidence of a previous marriage on 
the lady’s part, upon which they entered an action for 
divorce. Well, my lady held her tongue, and let things 
take their course, until she was put in the witness-box, and 
then she quietly produced a marriage certificate which 
proved that husband number one had already a wife in 
existence when he married her, so that her marriage with 
Lord Bufton held good. It was an awful blow for the 
Draffley people ; but it was law, and they had to put up 
with it.” 

“Ah!” It was evident that Lord Button’s divorce did 
not interest Mr. Claxton ; he was too much occupied with 
thoughts of Molly de Courcy and her wrongs. What if 
Philpott had perpetuated the wrong he had done her by 
betraying her into a bigamous marriage with this Mr. Mir- 
field? “Where is Miss de Courcy now, I wonder?” he 
said. “With her present husband, I suppose?” 

“ Oh, Mirfield is dead — has been dead for the last year 
and more. I suppose the widow has made her home with 
his people. What has become of Philpott?” 


RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


205 


‘‘Well, it is time he was dead too,” replied Claxton, 
much in the tone he would have used if he had been speak- 
ing of a dog. ” The last thing I heard of him he was in 
a pauper lunatic, asylum, a raving maniac from drink. I 
suppose the brute had a touch of conscience in him some- 
where. He went headlong to the devil after Miss de 
Courcy’s marriage — drank so incessantly that managers 
grew shy of him, and preferred engaging inferior actors 
whom they could depend on. Whenever we have any of 
the old stock people acting here he puts in an appearance 
on the Friday night, which means passing round the hat 
on his behalf at treasury on Saturday. But I’ve not been 
dunned for the usual shilling for some time past now, so I 
suppose he is either shut up again or dead. If I could 
have my way,” he added, speaking mechanically, with a 
repressed force which was more significant than any amount 
of vehemence, “ I would make a law for the extermination 
of all such vermin. Once prove that a man is a mere 
plague-spot on humanity — that he lives only for the in- 
jury of himself and his kind — and he should be removed, 
just as diseased cattle are slaughtered for the good of the 
greater number.” 

Borthwicke laughed, as if he found the other’s exalted 
morality amusing. 

“I should like to make this man’s acquaintance,” he 
said. “ He belongs to a type which is passing away. 
Actors nowadays set up for being as respectable as their 
neighbors. This Philpott would make a good model to 
draw the contrast from between the past and present type. 
I suppose there is no chance of getting me an interview 
with him?” 

“Hot that I know of. Yes, though! How I come to 
think of it, Tom Desmond, who used to be leading man 
here in the days of the stock company, is coming here with 
one of the provincial companies in a few weeks’ time. If 
Philpott is above ground, and master of his own actions, 
he is certain to turn up during the week. He and Tom 
were great cronies at one time. He won’t lose the oppor- 
tunity of drinking at some one else’s expense.” 

“ I wonder if you would introduce me to Mr. Desmond?” 
Borthwicke asked. Even if Philpott did not turn up 


206 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


himself, his old crony might possess some information worth 
having on the subject of that other Mrs. Philpott, who 
stood like an intangible shadow between him and the 
fruition of his hopes. If Mrs. Philpott number one really 
existed, in fact, Mrs. Arthur Mirfield was Mrs. Arthur 
Mirfield, and there was an end to his present plan of cam- 
paign. This Desmond would surely know if his friend had 
had a wife previous to his meeting with this little “ extra 
lady’' at Birmingham? At any rate it was worth trying. 
“ If you introduce me to Mr. Desmond, I might be able to 
get at this poor devil of a Philpott and be the means of 
putting a couple of sovereigns in his pocket.” 

“ Which would shorten his life by just so many more 
hours,” returned the other grimly. “God forbid that I 
should stand in the way of a consummation so devoutly to 
be desired. I will make you known to Desmond with the 
best will in the world. Keep your eye on the advertise- 
ments, and when you see A Madman's Legacy announced 
come down and I will take you round to the dressing-room. 
Let me have a line in the morning to remind me — I’m a 
bad hand at remembering appointments so long ahead.” 

When Clem came to review the results of the evening’s 
labor he came to the conclusion that he had not done badly 
for a start. 

He had arrived at the theatre in entire ignorance of any- 
thing disreputable in Mrs. Arthur Mirfield ’s past, beyond 
his own imaginings ; he was leaving it in possession of the 
fact of this low marriage of hers — a marriage with a drunken 
reprobate, who was regarded as something too vile to be 
granted living room among his own none-too-squeamish 
associates. Such a connection, legal or not, must always 
leave a certain amount of contamination behind it. The 
mere thought of the mother of the future Earl of Netley 
going through such an experience struck one as incon- 
gruous and against all decency. 

His hound instinct was fairly roused now. Against 
Molly de Oourcy he had no personal feeling whatever. 
There was no touch of spite — as there was in his sister’s 
mind — mixed up with his desire to prove the little heir’s 
illegitimacy; but neither was there any lofty aspiration 
after the triumph of the right. 


RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


207 


The couple of thousand pounds he meant to make over 
the business was one motive with him, and another was the 
commercial advantage it would be to him to own a peer of the 
realm as a nephew. And in addition to these motives there 
was the hound instinct aforesaid — an instinct latent in 
most minds, and one which circumstances and his present 
occupation had developed in him to an unusual extent. 

With this instinct urging him on, the check of the next 
two or three weeks seemed deplorable. He could not move 
a step forward toward the meeting with Philpott until 
Desmond, the actor, came to the Camel and Howdah. 
Could he do nothing in the mean time? 

Why should he not run down to Birmingham to-morrow 
— Saturday was always an off day with him in town — and 
provide himself with positive proof of the marriage be- 
tween Philpott and Miss de Oourcy? Then, W'hen he had 
established the non-existence of that previous wife, he 
would be ready to go ahead at once. 

The idea was excellent. November once fairly in, he 
might find it difficult to get away ; he would go to Bir- 
mingham while he had the time to spare. 

The next evening found him at the Lyceum Theatre, in 
the capital of the Black Country, interviewing the manager 
on the subject of the Philpott marriage. 

On this occasion he had decided that his hands would 
he less tied if he declared his purpose boldly from the 
outset. 

“ I want to prove beyond all doubt either that this Mr. 
Philpott was married or that he wasn’t — I don’t care a rap 
which,” he told Mr. Jessop. “I am trustee for a little 
property left to him, or his heirs after him. Philpott 
himself, I am almost certain, is dead; but I have heard 
some talk of a marriage and a son, and the marriage, I 
believe, took place during the time he was acting here. 
You see, I can’t pay this money over to the next of kin 
until I am certain either that this marriage did not take 
place or that there was no issue. On the first point I 
thought you might be able to give me a little information.” 

Mr. Jessop shook his head. 

“ We managers don’t know much of the private lives of 
the members of our companies,” he said. “I have no 


208 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


memory of a marriage in which Philpott was mixed np, 
but I am such a busy man I might easily have forgotten. 
What was the lady’s name? That might help me.” 

“De Courcy — Molly de Courcy.” 

“ I don’t remember ever hearing the name in my life. 
She was not one of our people, I suppose?” 

“Yes; but a person of no importance, I take it. She 
was — now, what do they call it? — one of the people who go 
on without anything to say.” 

“An ‘extra,’ you mean, I suppose,” suggested Mr. Jessop. 

“ And now I begin to remember something of what you 
are speaking about,” he added, “ but I don’t know that I " 
ever heard the girl’s name before. I did not know he 
married her — oh, but that proves nothing,” he broke off, 
seeing his listener’s face drop; “there might be half-a- 
dozen marriages in the company without my hearing a 
word of it. The people behind will be able to tell you all 
about it, though — the hall-keeper or some of the dressers. 
How long ago was it?” 

“About five years.” 

“ Ah ! Then our hall-keeper, Simmonds, will most likely 
be posted up in the matter. Can you give me ten minutes 
to finish my letters for the London post? — I won’t keep 
you longer — and then we will go round to the hall and see 
what Simmonds can tell us. A wonderful old fellow, Mr. 
Borthwicke — a living reference-book of all the events that 
have happened in the theatre for the last seventeen years.” 

During the next ten minutes Borthwicke confessed to 
himself that it was a long time since he had been so excited 
about a thing as he was about this Philpott marriage. 
No matter how affairs turned out now, he had enough un- 
savory evidence against Mrs. Arthur to considerably weaken 
her position with Lord Netley. Marriage or no marriage, 
this Philpott episode must tell tremendously against the 
mother of the young heir, and whatever told to her detri- 
ment must, he imagined, tell to the advantage of his 
nephew George. Even if he could not prove the illegiti- 
macy of the boy, it might be advisable on George’s account 
to let Lord Netley know something of his daughter-in- 
law’s disreputable past. 

He waited at the back of the dress circle until Mr. Jes- 


RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


209 


sop should be at liberty to attend to him. The people in 
front of him were in screams of laughter over the piece. 
He had laughed immoderately over the thing himself when 
he saw it in London, but he had neither eyes nor ears for 
the clever nonsense now. His interest was all centred in 
this other drama in which he was himself playing a part, 
and in which the heroine had been unlucky enough to fall 
in love with an utterly unprincipled scoundrel. 

It was such an extraordinary thing for him, the unemo- 
tional man of business, to be so eager and excited that it 
produced a feeling of unreality in his mind. 

When Mr. Jessop came presently to the glass door at the 
back of the circle, with a bunch of long, slim keys in his 
hand, and beckoned him to follow him, and led him down 
long, narrow, dim passages, and through sly-looking little 
doors, each of which he opened with its own particular 
long key and closed carefully behind him, Borthwicke felt 
things were more dream-like and unreal than ever. There 
was something very mysterious and uncanny about these 
silent, narrow, blank passages, each lit by its solitary gas- 
burner, and each shut in at either end by a thick, low iron 
door, and it was quite a relief to the unimaginative money- 
lender when, at the opening of the fourth door, he found 
himself in the full glare of the footlights, with the laughter 
of the audience again in his ears, and discovered that he 
was on the stage, among the scene-shifters and actors at 
the wings. 

Mr. Jessop paused here a moment to ask the official in 
the prompt-corner “how he was off for time.” It seemed 
a curious inquiry, and the answer, “Oh, we’re all right; 
we’ve made seven minutes in this act,” sounded stranger 
still, until the manager explained that the company had 
to catch their train on to the next town within half an 
hour of the descent of the curtain that night, and they 
were playing the piece as ‘close’ as possible in consequence. 

“ Life in a travelling company is not quite such an en- 
joyable affair as people suppose,” he said, as he led the way 
up the stage and through a swing door at the back*. “ If 
there is no continual study of fresh parts there is plenty 
of fatigue of another kind.” 

They were in comparative silence again now, in a dim 
U 


210 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


space with huge, high doors at the farther end, and with a 
large window on their right hand. But this window, in- 
stead of looking into the street, looked into another dim 
space, or rather a small room, where there was a small fire 
burning in a small grate, and a large alphabetical letter- 
rack on the wall facing the window, and an old man snooz- 
ing in an arm-chair, with his arm resting on the broad 
ledge inside the glass partition. 

Mr. Jessop tapped on the pane, and in an instant the old 
man was wide awake and alert. 

He rose when he saw who it was, and opened the door of 
his little den from the inside. 

“Asleep on duty, Simmonds,” said Mr. Jessop, with a 
touch of admonition. 

“ Well, you see, sir,” he answered apologetically, “ things 
are so quiet just about nine o’clock that it ain’t easy to 
keep awake. The door is latched, and no one could get in 
or out without I pulled the cord.” 

“It’s a bad plan, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Jessop again. 
“ Get one of your grandchildren to come and keep watch 
while you take your snooze. I’ve brought a gentleman to 
see you. He wants to ask you a question or two about Mr. 
Philpott — nothing to harm him, so you need not mind 
answering. 

“Yessir!” said Simmonds, standing at attention, with 
his eyes on Borthwicke’s face, fixed as steadily as if he was 
standing for his photograph. 

“I want to know about Mr. Philpott’s marriage,” said 
Borthwicke. 

“Yessir!” replied Simmonds, sharp and short, and 
waited again. 

“ I believe he was married during his last stay in Bir- 
mingham?” 

“ Yessir!” 

“Do you remember the name of the lady he married?” 

“ Molly Davis, sir ; afterward, when they put her name 
in the bills, Molly de Courcy,” 

“ You’re sure of that?” 

“ Quite sure, sir.” 

“And you’re sure of the marriage?” 

“Quite sure, sir. That is to say,” he added, with a 


RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


211 


sudden touch of prudence, as he noted his questioner’s 
eagerness, “ I am as sure in my own mind as I can be, 
without knowing for certain anything about it.” 

“But,” said Borthwicke, with his eagerness a little 
damped, “ if they were married- while they were acting 
here, surely somebody knew something certain about it?” 

“Well, they kept it so quiet, you see, sir. They had 
been married more than a month before anybody knew it.” 

Borthwicke’s face fell. Perhaps the marriage ceremony 
had not been performed after all. He had no great faith 
in secret affairs of this kind. 

“ Then none of the company were aware of the marriage 
at the time it took place?” 

“No, sir; nobody.” 

“ Ah ! Then I’m afraid the chances are there was no 
marriage at all.” 

“I’ll never believe it, sir,” exclaimed Simmonds, drop- 
ping his military precision and becoming human and spon- 
taneous all of a sudden. “ She was one of the most re- 
spectable girls we ever had in the theatre — as straight as 
the queen, she was. I’d lay my life on it! The only pity 
was that she ever got to care for that good-for-nothing 
scamp of a Philpott. People thought it was a grand thing 
for her to be taken up by a man in his position, but it 
was the worst day’s work she ever did for herself when she 
listened to his love-making. I’ll be bound he’s broken her 
heart, and her spirit too, long before this.” 

“Very likely,” said Borthwicke, “but even that don’t 
prove that he ever really married her — don’t you see, you 
know? What I want to find out is where they were mar- 
ried, or where I can find somebody who saw them married, 
or even somebody who has seen the marriage certifi- 
cate ” 

“ Then I can oblige you, sir,” burst in the old man, with 
a sudden touch of recollection. “ We’ve got a woman in 
the theatre now — she’s dressing in number three, sir” — 
this in an aside tone to Mr. Jessop — “ who saw the mar- 
riage lines with her own eyes. She walked home with 
Miss de Oourcy one night — Philpott was off on the drink, 
as usual, and the poor little creature was so upset by some- 
thing that had been said about Philpott and her in the 


212 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


dressing-room that she wasn’t fit to go home by herself, so 
Mrs. Maguire walked home to her lodgings with her. 
Well, sir, I suppose the two women got talking over the 
dressing-room quarrel, and it ended with Miss de Courcy 
fetching her marriage lines out of her desk an’ showing 
’em to Mrs. Maguire. That put an end to the scandal in 
the theatre for good. Mrs. Maguire Just spoke out when 
she heard any one making free with Miss de Courcy ’s 
name, and that stopped it.” 

“And you say this Mrs. Maguire is still here?” asked 
Borthwicke, with all his eagerness restored. 

“ Send up to number three and tell Mrs. Maguire she is 
wanted here,” Mr. Jessop put in, and then he took his 
leave and went back to the front of the theatre. “ Let me 
know if I can be of any further use,” he said to Borthwicke 
courteously ; “ but Simmonds is able to do all that is possi- 
ble among the working staff; his word has as much weight 
as mine.” 

Mrs. Maguire turned out to be an elderly, garrulous Irish- 
woman — one of those talkative people who are capable of 
carrying on a conversation single-handed for an indefinite 
period, and the contest between her desire to make an 
elaborate recital out of the account of how she came to see 
Molly’s marriage lines, and Clem’s desire to get at the point 
of the story in as few words as possible, would have been 
immensely funny to an onlooker with a sense of humor. 

“ Did I ever see Molly de Courcy’s marriage lines, is it 
you are asking me?’ she ejaculated, when she had heard 
his question. “ Av coorse I did! And I’d like to see the 
man, or woman either, who’d stand up fornint me and say 
anything different. It was the night that that backbiting 
little hussy of a Jackson girl had said ’” 

“Wait a moment, please,” put in Borthwicke, lifting 
his hand to stay the avalanche of words he saw coming; 
“ never mind about the hussy of a Jackson girl. Just an- 
swer me a question or two as short as you can. You say 
you saw the certificate. Did you take it in your hands? 
Are you sure it was a genuine document?” 

“Am I sure?” she echoed, repeating his words, after the 
Irish fashion. “ Am I sure I’ve got two eyes in my head? 
Very well, then ! I’m as sure about that dockeyment. It 


RAKING A RUBBISH HEAP. 


213 


was the night I walked home with her after that insultin’ 
little blackguard of a ” 

“Wait, wait!” cried Borthwicke, with his hands up^ 
again. “ Tell me, did you see the names of the bride and 
bridegroom, and their witnesses, and the address of the 
place where the marriage took place?” 

“And why wouldn’t I?” she asked reproachfully, as if 
she suspected him of a desire to get a rise out of her. 
“ What would prevent me, seein’ I had the slip of paper in 
me own hands, right under the gas? She’d locked the 
room door, because she didn’t want Misther Philpott to 
come in and catch her showing the thing to me. ‘He 
wouldn’t like it, I know,’ she ses, ‘but I can’t stand the 
insultin’ remarks of them women in the dressing-room any 
longer. I’m his wife, Mrs Maguire,’ she ses, ‘and ’ ” 

“Yes, yes, yes!” struck in Borthwicke, “we’ll hear all 
that by-and*bye. ^Tell me, now, what was the address of 
the place where the ceremony took place?” 

“The cirimony?” repeated Mrs. Maguire, puzzled ap- 
parently by the word. 

“ Yes. Were they married at a church or a registrar’s 
office, and was it here in Birmingham?” 

“ Is it the marriage you mane?” she cried, enlightened. 
“ I don’t know that I ever rightly heard the name of the 
place where they got married.” 

“ But if you saw the certificate you must have seen the 
name for yourself.” 

He was beginning to feel a little ruffled, but managed to 
keep his temper. 

“ Av coorse I did! Didn’t I tell you I saw iviry name 
on the paper, and do you think I’d lower myself to tell a 
parcel of lies about such a thing as that? If you don’t 
believe me you can ask Susan Jackson for yourself. She’ll 
rimimber the night well enough, and how I walked home 
with ” 

“ My good creature” — it was getting to be a considerable 
effort to speak calmly — “ I know all about that. What I 
want to know now is, do you remember the name of the 
place where Miss de Courcy and Mr. Philpott were mar- 
ried?” 

“ How can I rimimber a name I never heard in me life?” 


214 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


she demanded, with a flash of indignation. “ I’m as good 
at rimimbering as most people, but you bate me altogether 
when you ask me to rimimber something I never knew.” 

“ But didn’t you say just now you saw every name on 
the paper?” he asked, working up into a state of exasper- 
ation. 

“ Yis, I did!” she snapped back, “ and I mane it! I saw 
iviry word on the blessed paper! I’ll stand to that as long 
as I’ve got breath to say it!” 

“ Then how can you say you never knew the name if you 
read it for yourself on the ” 

“ Bade!” she cried, “ is it rade the name that you mane? 
Sure I niver did a word of rading in me life! I saw the 
words whin Molly showed ’em to me, but niver a word did 
I rade from beginning to end.” 

For a moment Borthwicke felt like indulging in a good 
hard swear ; then he saw the comic side* of the business and 
laughed instead. 

“ Is it me ignorance ye’r laffin’ at?” asked Mrs Maguire, 
with her face in a flame. “ Ye must have a mighty bad 
heart to make sport of a fellow-creature’s misfortin ” 

“Devil a bit!” cried Borthwicke. “I was laughing at 
my own, to think how you’ve been fooling me for the last 
ten minutes. Here’s a shilling; get yourself a drop of 
whisky. By-the-bye, you may as well tell me the address 
of the lodgings where Mr. and Mrs. Philpott lived. I’ll go 
in the morning and have a chat with the landlady. She 
may have had a peep at the certificate to, and perhaps she 
was able to read the names for herself.” 

“ It’s just like raking a rubbish heap,” he was thinking, 
as he walked home to his hotel. “ Now and again you 
come on a find when you least expect it, as I did with 
Claxton last night, and then again, when you think you’ve 
got a good haul, your find turns out empty rubbish. 
Damned unsatisfactory occupation, to say the least of it!” 


A CRUMB PICKED UP FROM THE WAYSIDE. 215 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A CRUMB PICKED UP FROM THE WAYSIDE. 

For three weeks Mrs. George Mirfield possessed her soul 
with patience, and refrained from all interference in Clem’s 
proceedings, and at the end of that time she had her reward 
in the shape of along letter from him, containing the news 
of Molly de Courcy’s previous marriage. 

“ The nuisance of it is that I have not been able to put 
my hand on a copy of the certificate yet,” he wrote, “ and 
it is no good spoiling the whole thing by a little rashness. 
We must keep quiet till we can do the thing thoroughly. 
I only know the man she married by his stage name. If 
he had been married in that name it would have been easy 
enough to get hold of the proof we want. In a few days’ 
time I hope to be introduced to a man who was a close 
friend of this first husband, and possibly through him I 
may get an introduction to the husband himself. It is 
just on the cards that I may turn up at Cramlingford one 
of these fine mornings arm-in-arm with that gentleman 
himself, which I take it would be rather a facer for the 
little bigamist at the Fallow.” 

The receipt of this letter threw Mrs. George Mirfield 
into a state of the wildest excitement, and perhaps it was 
typical of her disposition that, in considering the results 
of such a denouement as Clem suggested, she derived a more 
vivid gratification from the prospect of Molly’s abasement 
than from the thought of the benefit to her son. 

She had never been able to forgive the poor little actress 
for having succeeded where she had failed. She had 
never ceased to begrudge the bright, sympathetic little 
creature the affectionate familiarity of her position at the 
Fallow, and at the thought of the swift, overwhelming 
degradation in store for her Mrs. George’s heart fairly 
leaped within her for joy. 

She tried to picture the scene — the entrance of the 


216 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


shal)by, broken-down actor, the sudden terror flashing into 
Molly’s face, the theatrical manner of the declaration — all 
actors were theatrical, she supposed — “ That lady is my 
wife; I’ve come to fetch her,” and the shame and ignominy 
of Molly’s exit from the home where she had been made so 
much of. 

The anticipation caused her such unmixed delight that 
a sudden desire for a slight foretaste of the pleasure came 
to her. She would go up to the Fallow and enjoy a look 
at Molly de Courcy, on the same principle perhaps that a 
farmer enjoys a look at the fine turkey-cock fattening for 
his Christmas dinner. 

Charlotte and Daisy had returned from the seaside last 
night ; their arrival would serve as an excuse for her visit. 

She timed her call between four and five, and found quite 
a roomful of people at tea. 

Lord Netley was in the drawing-room — his presence 
there had grown to be a rare event lately — in a big chair 
by the fire, with Molly and her boy fussing round him. 
Charlotte and Daisy were at the tea-table, with Abney 
Garth in close attendance, and there was another young 
man present, a Mr. Kelper, who had lately rebought an 
estate in the neighborhood which he had previously squan- 
dered in the hot extravagance of his first youth. 

Fortune had smiled on him again in the person of a rich 
aunt, who had left him all her money ; and he had had the 
courage to buy back the property left him by his father 
and take up his abode again among the scenes of his early 
dissipations. 

But nobody was inclined to be very hard on him, seeing 
that he came back to them with his hands full of money, 
and he was fast becoming a popular man in the neighbor- 
hood. Molly had only met him since her return from 
France, and Charlotte had been a little surprised to see how 
friendly they had become in the time. 

Molly’s prophecy had been fulfilled. 

All those weeks back — what an eternity it seemed to her 
now, looking back at it, and yet it was not three months — 
when she was making such haste to remove Artie from the 
reach of contagion, she had said to Abney that the calm, 
peaceful life of the past twelvemonth was about to be 


A CRUMB PICKED UP FROM THE WAYSIDE. 217 


broken up forever. And her words had come to pass; she 
and Charlotte would never he again to each other exactly as 
they had been during that year of quiet domestic happiness. 

Molly had known it instinctively in the first moment of 
their meeting, as they stood face to face with close-clasped 
hands on the platform of the York railway station. Perhaps 
the fault was as much with her as with Lotte, and yet she 
fancied it would have been the same even if she had had 
no new secret to guard. Lotte was not just the same 
woman she had been. Was it that Abney had made the 
most of his opportunity? Was it that Lotte, too, had her 
own secret to guard — had she, during the time of her little 
one’s peril, found out how much Abney Garth was to her?” 

And Lady Mirfield had seen the change in Molly as 
quickly as Molly had seen it in her; and now, seeing how 
pleasant and friendly she and Marcus Kelper were with 
each other, Charlotte was asking herself if this was the 
meaning of the change in the little woman ; if this was 
why Molly’s lips had taken that new little touch of patient 
endurance, why her voice — always one of her greatest 
charms — had lost something of its old sweet gayety, why 
her vivacity had grown a shade more fitful, her spirits a 
little forced? Was she attracted by this big, handsome 
young man, who was such a desirable in every way? 

Mrs. George asked herself the same question before she 
had been in the drawing-room ten minutes, and gloated 
triumphantly over the possibility. She hoped it was so; 
such a state of things would add a piquancy to the feast 
she was promising herself. Her triumph would be perfect 
if the appearance of this disreputable drunken actor hus- 
band were to come in between Molly and such an excellent 
all-round catch as Marcus Kelper. She watched the evi- 
dent admiration in the young man’s eyes, as his glance 
followed Molly’s dainty little figure about the room, and 
chuckled inwardly as she thought of the Nemesis in store 
for this swindling adventuress, who had dared to snap her 
fingers at the patronage of her betters. 

“ So it is really true that you mean to settle down among 
us again,” she said to Kelper, when he brought her tea to 
her. “ I hardly believed it when Lady Burton told me so 
3^esterday. I think you are very courageous.” 


218 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Kelper laughed. 

“ That is a very cruel remark, Mrs. Mirfield. If every- 
body did not know all there is to know against me, they 
would think I had been one of the blackest villains in the 
world, after such a speech as that.” 

“ Oh, hardly so bad as that,” she answered, with that in- 
dulgent inflection of the voice which implies that the 
speaker is making the very best of a very bad business. 
She was bound to be spiteful to any one who paraded their 
liking for Molly. “ It is nearly always possible to a man 
to live down the past. It is only with us women that such 
a thing is impossible.” 

“Yes, it is horribly unjust,” struck in Charlotte. 

She had not seen the glance at Molly with which Mrs. Mir- 
field had pointed her observation, but Lord Netley had, and 
he put out his hand and drew his favorite daughter-in-law 
down to a seat on the broad arm of his chair. 

“ It would be impossible to fix the standard of morality 
at the same height for both sexes,” he said; “nobody but 
a visionary would ever dream of such a thing. But, apart 
from the question of ethics, I would judge men and women 
alike, Lotte. Why not?” 

“ That is just what I want to know,” she returned im- 
pulsively. “ Why should a man’s faults be so much sooner 
forgiven than a woman’s?” 

“My dear Charlotte, you are talking like a child,” ob- 
served Mrs. Mirfield in her most refined manner, her voice 
and delivery sounding more artificial than ever after Lady 
Mirfield’s touch of vehemence. “ And what is more, I be- 
lieve you would be one of the first to object if an alteration 
in the present unwritten law were suggested. A woman’s 
life must always be above suspicion.” Again her promi- 
nent black eyes travelled toward Molly; but Artie had 
brought a footstool to his grandfather’s side, and was reach- 
ing up to whisper something in the old man’s ear, and 
Molly was bending down to hear her share of the secret also. 
By this manoeuvre her face was hidden from sight, and 
yet Mrs. George felt certain she was listening. “ A touch 
of mystery makes a man interesting, but it mars a woman’s 
whole life. What is your opinion, Mrs. Arthur?” 

“ And yet there is no greater fallacy than to suppose that 


A CRUMB PICKED UP FROM THE WAYSIDE. 219 

mystery must always mean mischief,” said Garth, appar- 
ently unconscious that he was speaking out of his turn, and 
rounding his words in a certain distinct, incisive manner 
which drew everybody’s attention on him, as he meant it 
should. It was almost as if he had said, “ Attend, all of 
you : I am going to say something worth listening to.” 

“ When I was at Cambridge there was a fellow in the 
same set with me — a hard-reading set. Lord Netley — who 
was looked upon as the steadiest, hardest worker of the lot. 
He was older than most of us, and we rather looked up to 
him, as a man who was bound to hold a very high univer- 
sity position in the time to come. Well, you can imagine 
how everybody stared when he suddenly threw up his read- 
ing and joined the most rackety lot in the college. His 
steady old chums — I among the rest — all turned up their 
eyes and declared he must be possessed by a devil. Of course 
we all gave him up, said he’d gone to the bad ; that when 
a steady old chap like that took to evil courses it was a 
more hopeless case than any rowdy lad of the lot, and all 
the rest of it. All that term he went the pace royally, and 
when vacation time came we rather thought we’d seen the 
last of him. 

‘‘ Conceive our surprise when he came back at the com- 
mencement of the next term, and resumed his steady life 
and hard-working habits as naturally as if there had been 
no break in them. 

“ Of course, at first there was a lot of talk about ijb. 
We all wanted to know what had been the cause of his out- 
burst of rowdyism, and some suggested one thing, and 
some suggested another, but — and this is where the moral 
of my story comes in, Mrs. Mirfield — nobody ever thought 
of suggesting a good motive for his curious attack of prof- 
ligacy. ‘It was mysterious, therefore it must be disgrace- 
ful, ’ was the universal judgment. 

“ At last, when we were alone one day and we had talked 
ourselves into a confidential mood over our pipes, he opened 
out and explained the whole thing. 

“ He had thrown himself neck and crop into the fastest 
set in the university to get hold of a lad — the son of a man 
w^ho had done him a good turn — because he saw no other 
way of getting at him. 


220 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ I had tried time after time to get him to my rooms,” 
he said, ‘but he was frightened of such a steady old buffer 
as I am, and wouldn’t let me get a word with him ; so I 
took heart of grace and followed Mahomet’s example — the 
mountain wouldn’t come to me, so I went to the moun- 
tain; and when the boy saw me playing cards, right on 
into the small hours, night after night, and sticking to my 
toddy with the best of them, he lost his old awe of me. ’ 

“Now, that was a big lesson to me,” said Garth, drop- 
ping his story-telling manner and looking round at his at- 
tentive listeners; “ I’ve left off bracketing mystery and 
mischief as synonymous terms since then. Give a man the 
benefit of the doubt; if you don’t understand his motive, 
don’t jump to the conclusion that it must of necessity be 
bad.” 

“A man — yes,” exclaimed Mrs. Mirfield; “that is just 
what I began with. But there is no such thing as a ben- 
efit to a doubt when the doubt concerns a woman — to her, 
socially, doubt and death mean the same thing.” 

“I call that awfully far fetched,” said Charlotte. 
“ Some women contrive to keep alive, socially, in spite of 
any amount of doubt. It is simply a question of assurance 
in most cases. But I want to hear the finish of your 
story, Abney. Did the steady-going old buffer succeed in 
reclaiming the young rowdy? I hope he didn’t risk his 
reputation for nothing?” 

• “ No ; he kept the boy out of positive mischief, though 
he by no means made a saint of him. What do you think 
of my story, Mrs. Mirfield?” 

“ I don’t think it touches my argument at all. I never 
said mystery harmed a man’s reputation. I only said it 
was fatal to a woman’s.” 

“And the argument is apropos of what?” asked Lord 
Netley, sitting suddenly upright in his chair, and fixing 
his blue eyes on the last speaker in a way that she knew 
well meant war. It was not often that he roused himself 
to active battle nowadays, and she was taken at a disad- 
vantage and had to vacate her ground. 

“ I don’t know that it was exactly apropos of anything,” 
she said feebly ; at which reply he made an inarticulate little 
sound in his throat expressive of doubt or dissatisfaction. 


A CRUMB PICKED UP FROM THE WAYSIDE. 221 

“ You stuck to your point so persistently that I thought 
there must be some hidden attack behind it,” he observed. 
“If you must fight at all — and you, my dear sister-in-law, 
are one of those estimable ladies to whom combat of some 
kind is a necessity — fight in the open. Don’t stab your 
opponent in the back, nor strike an adversary whose hands 
are tied. You were talking about unwritten laws just 
now. I know of no unwritten law which demands stricter 
obedience than the one which ordains fair-play in single 
combat. It seemed to me that your diatribe against 
mystery in a woman’s past had a certain animus. I may 
have been mistaken, but it seemed so to me; and as it is 
not because there is anything to be ashamed of in them, 
but purely and simply in obedience to my wish that Molly 
keeps silent on the subject of her theatrical experiences — 
makes a mystery of her past, in fact — it is incumbent upon 
me to see that it causes her no annoyance. Having tied 
her hands, it is my duty to see that no advantage is taken 
of her defenceless position. Any attack upon her I accept 
as an attack upon myself, and resent it accordingly. That 
is all ! I hope I may not have to speak on this matter 
again.” 

He rose and held his hand out to Helper as he finished. 

“ I suppose I ought to apologize for delivering a family 
sermon before you,” he said. “Don’t let it frighten you 
away; it is not likely to happen again. Abney, will you 
give me your arm up the stairs?” 

Helper took advantage of the break-up of the circle to 
take his leave at the same time, and the ladies and children 
were left to themselves. 

In the general move which followed, Mrs. Mirfield con- 
trived to place herself between Molly and the others. 
Lord Netley’s defence of the little usurper had roused the 
elder woman’s venom to bubbling point; she could not re- 
sist the desire to have another stab at her adversary. 

“ I think you ought to be very much obliged tome,” she 
began, pulling her chair a little nearer the fire, so that 
Molly could not leave her position at the mantel piece with- 
out asking her to move; “ I consider I have been a good 
friend to you this afternoon. I have proved the earl’s 
devotion to your cause, not to speak of Abney Garth’s — • 


222 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

that long-winded story of his was all on your account, I 
suppose — and I have managed to let Mr. Kelper into the 
secret of your stage life without any humiliation or trou- 
ble to you.” 

Molly made no answer. She was thinking of George’s 
sublime self-abnegation, his utter selflessness, and saying 
to herself over and over again that this woman was his 
mother. 

“Charming young man, Mr. Kelper, is he not?” the 
affected, drawling voice went on. “ A most desirable 'parti 
in all ways. A reformed rake is always supposed to make 
a good husband, and his worldly circumstances are ex- 
cellent. It would be a really capital chance for you, Mrs. 
Arthur; you may not" get such another — your good looks 
are not what they were. If you won’t resent a word of 
well-meant advice, I should say accept him by all means if 
he gives you the opportunity. The earl is breaking very 
fast, and things are bound to be unpleasant for you when 
he is gone.” 

“ I think it is dreadful to talk of a person’s death in 
that business-like way,” said Molly, trying to get away 
from the other topic. 

Charlotte and the children had gone to the other end of 
the room to look at a book of fairy-stories which Daisy had 
brought from Southport for Artie. Molly wished she 
could get away to them. She had a lurking suspicion 
that Mrs. Mirfleld had some set purpose in this afternoon’s 
attack upon her, and her soul was torn apart by her desire 
to exercise forbearance toward George’s mother and the 
instinct to defend herself and her boy by the first means 
that offered. 

“Death is always more or less drjBadful,” returned Mrs. 
Mirfleld, “ and among the less educated classes the dread is 
very strongly developed ; but these eventualities have to be 
faced, and when a person is in such a doubtful position as 
yours the sooner they are faced the better. A good second 
marriage is your only hope for the future.” 

“ Then,” said Molly, with a slight smile, “ I’m afraid my 
position is a very hopeless one indeed, for I don’t believe 
there is a man living who could induce me to marry 
again.” 


A CRUMB PICKED UP FROM THE WAYSIDE. 223 

Mrs. Mirfield’s eyes glimmered as they rested on Molly’s 
face. 

“ But why not?” she asked. “ Is it sentiment that pre- 
vents you? Can you afford to be sentimental? Is it that 
you have grown dainty since marrying among the Mir- 
fields? Well, I don’t think you can afford to be dainty 
either. Mr. Kelper may not be over-particular in some 
of his notions, but I don’t suppose that would matter to 
you as much as it would to one of nous autres. He is not 
the kind of man I would give a young, delicate-minded girl 
to; but I believe that among the people of your class ” 

“Oh, please let me and my class alone!” cried Molly, 
with an imploring little gesture. “ You cannot know any- 
thing on that subject except by hearsay, and that is not 
always to be trusted. ” 

“ Perhaps not ; but still, we all know that the private 
life of theatrical people is very free and easy. They are 
not so nice in their notions of what is correct as one could 
wish ” 

“I think,” said Molly, with warm cheeks, and hands 
which fretted nervously at the trimmings of her gown, “I" 
really do think that you forget to whom you are speaking. 
You speak of delicacy and niceness among actors and act- 
resses. I don’t believe there is one among them, certainly 
not among those I have known, who would show such a 
want of decency, let alone delicacy, as to run down a per- 
son’s calling to her face. If that is your idea of fine breed- 
ing and delicacy of mind I am glad you don’t think me 
well-bred or nice in any way. Some folks’ condemnation 
is praise indeed!” 

Mrs. Mirfield rose and rustled the folds of her silk gown 
into their proper shape. She was trying her very hardest 
to look at Molly as if she found her little address on breed- 
ing exceedingly funny, but try as she might her annoy- 
ance would show through the pretence of amusement. 
She would have liked to crush the daring little person 
there and then by an inquiry as to whether she got her 
ideas on manners from her low actor husband. The temp- 
tation was almost irresistible; the only consideration 
which held her back was her fear that Clem would throw up 
the whole affair if she hurried on the climax before he. was 


224 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


ready for it. So she contented herself with that glance of 
scornful amusement at Molly, and swept away up the room 
to make her adieux to Charlotte. 

Molly felt rather bad about it all. She was despising 
herself for her want of self-control. Why need she have said 
that last nasty little thing? Was that how she showed for- 
bearance to the mother of the man who had behaved with 
such unheard-of magnanimity to her and her hoy? She 
sighed quietly to herself as she recalled the remark about 
the decrease in her good looks. If Mrs. Mirfield had known 
the cause of that decrease, if she had guessed at the long, 
wakeful nights that Molly spent in passionate retrospection 
of those few bitter-sweet days at Leuville, if she could 
have suspected the ache and the longing that lay on Molly’s 
heart always, night and day! No wonder her glance had 
lost some of its quick interest, her voice some of its clear 
brightness. 

Twenty times a day Molly told herself that she was not 
really miserable; that, with so much cause for thankful- 
ness as she had, she would be an ungrateful wretch indeed 
to make herself absolutely unhappy because of this one 
shadow which had fallen across her path ; and yet she could 
not stifle that aching desire to know or hear something of 
George and his doings. It was a constant scourge to her 
to think of the great sacrifice she had accepted from him 
without a possibility of reward, and it made it all the worse 
that her heart was on his side ; that all her blame was for 
herself, all her admiration — an admiration which was almost 
reverence — was for him. Small wonder indeed that she 
was losing some of her old brightness under the pain of 
it all. 

Mrs. Mirfield got through her farewells at the other end 
of the room, and left without another glance at the forlorn 
little figure in the earl’s big chair by the fire. She could 
not he even outwardly civil to Molly while she was smart- 
ing under the rebuke so deftly administered. 

The air of the October dusk was chill when she got out- 
side, and she hastened her steps down the long avenue, 
almost wishing, in her vexation, that she had not been in 
such a hurry to greet Lady Mirfield on her return. 

When she was about half-way between the house and the 


A CRUMB PICKED UP FROM THE WAYSIDE. 225 


gates she overtook Marcus Kelper, talking to one of the 
Fallow keepers. 

When he recognized her he said “ Good-night” to the 
man and walked on with her, and before they had ex- 
changed a dozen sentences he had brought the conversation 
round to Molly. 

“ I could never make you understand how surprised I 
was when I first met her,” he said. “ You see, I had heard 
something of the circumstances of the marriage at the time 
it took place. And I heard something else, too, at my 
club the other day. I was telling an old friend of my 
father’s that I had bought the old place hack again, and 
that brought the talk round to Netley Fallow and the Mir- 
fields.” 

“And he spoke of Mrs. Arthur to you?” observed Mrs. 
Mirfield, in a tone which was scarcely interrogative but 
was yet distinctly encouraging. “ Spoke of her in a way 
which led you to expect something objectionable?” 

“Oh, no, not that!” he answered hastily. “There was 
nothing of that kind in what he said — old Koyston is one 
of the most careful men alive in speaking of ladies. He 
only said he was glad Arthur had never regretted his mar- 
riage, and that he had used his infiuence at the time in 
trying to prevent the match; and I got the impression 
somehow that Mrs. Mirfield was one of those actresses who 
are supposed to be typical of their kind, and who are no 
more so in reality than the poppies are typical of the corn 
they grow among — a lady with a loud voice and plenty of 
pearl powder, you know. When I met the vicar’s wife, 
one day last week, walking with a small, pale, brown-haired 
lady, with a particularly taking smile and nice bright, can- 
did gray eyes, Mrs. Arthur Mirfield was about the last 
name in the world I expected to hear given to her.” 

“What is the name of your club?” asked Mrs. Mirfield. 
“ Do you know if my son belongs to it?” 

“ I should hardly think it likely,” Kelper answered, with 
a kind of inward smile at the idea. He had accepted the 
general estimate of George Mirfield ’s life and goings on, 
and was thinking that that social Jehu would have found 
himself rather at a loss among the jog-trot members of 
“The Dodos.” “It is mostly a whist-players’ club, you 


22G 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


see, Mrs. Mirfield. My father put me up just before his 
death, and through all my knocking about I stuck to the 
old affair as a last rag of respectability. There are very few 
young men in it. It’s name sounds fogeyish — ‘The Dodos’ 
— queer name, isn’t it?" 

“ ‘The Dodos,’ " repeated Mrs. Mirfield, carefully fixing 
the name in her memory, “ ‘The Dodos. ’ The name of an 
extinct bird, isn’t it?" 

“Something of the kind, I believe," “ replied Kelper, 
whose ideas upon natural history were of the very vaguest, 
“ and there is a good deal of the extinct bird about most 
of the members. This Mr. Eoyston is a century behind 
the day. He was an old crony of Lord Netley’s under the 
Derby administration, and he still believes in the future 
of the constitutional party. The Tory cause and whist are 
the only things he takes any interest in. I was quite as- 
tonished when he began to talk about Arthur Mirfield’s 
marriage. It seems he gave the bride away." 

“Of course," Mrs. Mirfield exclaimed. “I have been 
wondering where I had seen the name. It was on the cer- 
tificate. And you say he tried to prevent the marriage? I 
wonder why?" 

“ Oh, he is just one of those antediluvian creatures wh^ 
still look upon the actors and actresses as disreputable peo- 
ple ! The mere fact of a man of any position marrying an 
actress would seem an enormity in his eyes. " 

“ Yes, I suppose so," agreed Mrs. Mirfield. But she did 
not believe it ; she was hoping that Mr. Eoyston had a more 
tangible cause for his opposition to her nephew’s marriage 
than a mere prejudice against the bride’s calling, and she 
decided at once that the thing was worth following up on 
chance. 

She paid but a very divided attention to Helper’s chatter 
for the rest of the time they were together. She was still 
smarting under the memory of Molly’s admirable little at- 
tack on her most sensitive point, and if her antagonism had 
needed spurring on — which was by no means the case — this 
afternoon’s events would have administered the necessary 
stimulus. 

As she stood for a few moments at her own gate, ex- 
changing civilities with Kelper, she was wondering all the 


A CRUMB PICKED UP FROM THE WAYSIDE. 227 


time if she would miss that night’s post. She scarcely- 
heard what her new young neighbor was saying;, she was 
conscious that he was in a state of beatific satisfaction with 
the world in general, and with the neighborhood of Oram- 
lingford in particular, but she was too absorbed with her 
own immediate plans to examine into the cause of this rosy- 
hued view of existing circumstances. 

Directly he left her she hurried to her writing-table and 
sent off the news she had heard to her brother. 

“It may be worth your while to see this Mr. Koyston,” 
she wrote. “ Even as Mr. Kelper told the story it sounded 
as if Mr. E. must have known something detrimental to 
the De Oourcy woman, and K. would be certain to tone 
down anything against her, for he is half in love with her. 
If there is a possibility of any good coming of it, bring 
Mr. Eoyston down here — I can receive you both — and bring 
the two of them face to face. Perhaps this man could help 
you to prove the Philpott marriage or liaison^ or whatever 
it was. If we can’t disprove the boy’s legitimacy it would 
still be a great satisfaction to me to crush that upstart lit- 
tle ballet girl. I think we can manage this in any case. 
For George’s sake it is advisable that we should break the 
earl off his infatuation, as, if she were once out of tne 
way, there might, be a chance of George’s being appointed 
guardian to the boy at the old man’s death, with the run 
of the Fallow until the child came of age — and half a loaf 
is better than no bread. Don’t let the dread of expense 
check you in hunting out this creature’s shameful past. 
Anything in reason I will be responsible for.” 

The worthy Clem chuckled considerably over this letter, 
and thought one or two uncomplimentary things of the 
female sex as a whole, and of his sister as an individual 
specimen. 

This daring young -woman had evidently been one too 
many for the Plonorable Mrs. George Mirfield in some way 
or another. Most likely she had been trying to do the 
high and mighty to the younger one, and she had given 
her a spoonful of her own pie. Trust a thief to catch a 
thief! The little East-end actress would be able to give 
the would-be fine lady as good a setting-down as any duch- 
ess or marchioness of the lot. 


228 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OF YOUE HOUSE?” 

Mrs. Mirfield had scarcely despatched her letter to 
Clem when Lessman’s name was brought to her. 

The nurse had been away with Lady Mirfield and Daisy, 
and there had been no private conversation between these 
two since the night Lessman had brought her old envelope, 
with Molly’s most unmistakable admission of fraud, tb Mrs. 
Mirfield. It was natural that the woman should take the 
first opportunity of finding out what use had been made of 
her i:^orination ; and yet this visit, so soon after her re- 
turn, annoyed Mrs. Mirfield excessively. It was a liberty. 
Lessman should have waited for her to reopen the matter. 
There was some touch of equality in thus taking the initia- 
tive into her own hands. 

And yet, so overwhelming had her aversion for Molly 
become that before they had been ten minutes together it 
had overpowered her sense of injured dignity, and she was 
discussing the approaching annihilation of Mrs. Arthur 
Mirfield with the keenest gusto. And Lessman listened in 
open-mouthed enjoyment, and with a considerable dash of 
self-complacency, as she remembered that this downfall of 
Miss Daisy’s foe would be due, in the first place, to her 
instrumentality. 

“ And it’s really true that she was married before she 
married Mr. Mirfield?” she asked, when she had heard the 
story of Clement Borthwicke’s discovery. “ Why, she can 
be sent to prison for that.” 

“ Well, you see, we have not quite proved the marriage 
yet,” returned Mrs. Mirfield, growing a little more cau- 
tious, as she saw the girl’s excitement. “But we have 
certainly proved that, in any case, she passed as this ac- 
tor’s wife.” 

“ But that’s a sight worse than the other, surely?” Less- 
man’s ideas were a little hazy on the mixed questions of 
lawfulness and respectability. “ Why, if his lordship knew 
of such a thing as that I should think he’d turn her out of 


“ IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OP YOUR HOUSE?” 229 

the house at once. He’d never let such a character as that 
mix with Lady Mirfield, morning, noon, and night. Do 
you think he would, ma’am?” 

Lessman’s eyes were dancing in her head. What a 
grand finish this would be to Mrs. Mirfield ’s residence at 
the Fallow. Miss Daisy would have her rights again then; 
there would he nobody to edge her away from her old place 
at her grandfather’s side, no little heir to monopolize the 
earl’s petting and put the other child into the background. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Mirfield, Lord Netley would never have her 
a minute longer in the house if he knew the sort of person 
she was.” 

But on this point Mrs. Mirfield was doubtful. 

“She has got such a hold upon the earl, you see,” she 
said, “ that unless we could prove all we said, up to the 
very hilt, he would believe her word against everybody’s. 
It is very galling to have to stand by and see the fuss they 
make over her and her boy, and to know that they are a 
couple of rank impostors; but we can’t do anything else 
just yet. It will be worth waiting for, if we can only 
bring this low, dissolute actor face to face with her, before 
the earl, and see him march his wife off back to her proper 
place among the sawdust and orange-peel of her sordid 
barn-life.” 

“Well, I should like to see that,” muttered Lessman, 
her imagination thoroughly fired by the fancy details of 
the picture. “ I should like to see the meeting between 
husband and wife ; but, as you say, it is a trial of one’s 
patience to stand by and see ’em enjoying things that they 
haven’t got a shadow of a right to, and have to keep mum.” 

When the girl had gone Mrs. Mirfield felt a little anx- 
ious. Ought she to have held her tongue, even to this co- 
conspirator of hers? she wondered. It hardly seemed fair 
to keep back anything from the person who had first started 
the investigation into the matter — apart from the enjoy- 
ment of discussing Mrs. Arthur’s approaching annihila- 
tion; and yet, now that the excitement of the interview 
was over, she began to doubt the prudence of taking the 
girl so thoroughly into her confidence. 

However, it was done now, and nothing could undo it, 
so she did her best not to let the memory of Lessman’s 


230 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


eagerness worry her; and yet, in spite of her, it would 
come back again every now and then during the lonely 
evening that followed. 

The morning following this interview the mail-bag 
brought some very momentous news to Netley Fallow. 

To Abney Garth it brought the news of the death of his 
maternal grandfather, coupled with the information that 
he had left every stick and stone he died possessed of to the 
grandson whom he had discarded all his life because he 
was the outcome of a marriage of which the old man had 
disapproved. 

To say that Garth was surprised at this stroke of fortune 
expresses his feelings verv inefficiently. He had so thor- 
oughly made up his mind that whatever wealth was his 
would be the result of his own unwearied labors that he 
found it hard to realize the truth when he was suddenly 
placed above the necessity of any future exertions whatever. 

And this was not the only news he received that morn- 
ing. The second item was of a less favorable nature. Mrs. 
Marston had left the home he had found for her, without 
leaving any address behind her. 

This information was communicated in a letter from his 
literary friend, Mrs. Benyon, who bewailed her own loss 
most piteously. 

“ I am not only bereaved of a friend,” she wrote, “ but I 
have lost the very best amanuensis I ever had. And it was 
all so sudden and unexpected — as unexpected on her part 
as on mine — that I cannot help thinking she acted on some 
mere impulse, which she may regret later on. She came 
back yesterday afternoon from a shopping expedition into 
the West-end, with her eyes swollen with crying, and told 
me she was obliged to leave me there and then. She talked 
a lot of stuff about making a poor return for my kindness 
of the past fifteen months, and cried as if her heart would 
break oyer saying good-by; and, to tell the strict truth, 
I did a little in the weeping line myself. I tell you this 
that you may understand how really sorry we are to part 
with one another; which brings me back to repeating my 
belief that she will regret her decision. I have an impres- 
sion that she was persuaded into doing as she did by some 


“ IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OP YOUR HOUSE?” 231 

other person, and yet I did not know she had a single ac- 
quaintance in London beyond those she knew through me. 
Perhaps you, with your more extended knowledge of her 
past, will be able to explain to yourself what seems to me 
so inexplicable. The sad history of her troubles before she 
came to me was always a sealed book between us, so that 
I am all at sea. By-the-bye, before closing my letter, I must 
deliver her message to you, which I was nearly forgetting. 

“ Tf you are writing to Mr. Garth,’ she said at the last 
moment, as we stood hand-in-hand in the hall, crying one 
against the other, while they carried her boxes out to the 
cab, ‘tell him not to be afraid that I shall break my word 
to him. I am going to put myself right out of sight, and 
nobody shall be subjected to the slightest annoyance 
through me. ’ I have been careful to deliver the message 
word for word, as it may be of importance to you to know 
what she said.’* 

This letter threw Garth into such a state of anxious per- 
plexity that for the time he almost lost sight of the worldly 
good fortune which had come so unexpectedly to him. 
His mind was less occupied with thoughts of the probable 
value of his grandfather’s leavings than with doubts and 
fears as to the final accomplishment of his promise to Lord 
Mii’field. 

“ The greatest wrong a man can put on a woman I have 
put,” the dying man had said; “and I look to. you, Ab- 
ney, to see that the wrong does not bear on her more heav- 
ily than is possible after I am gone.” 

And Garth had promised to do his best to protect the 
wronged woman from the after effects of his friend’s base- 
ness ; and hitherto his plans had succeeded fairly well. But 
now? 

If he lost sight of this unfortunate young creature — let 
her go her own ways without troubling himself about her 
future doings — how could he be sure that his promise to 
the dead man would be carried out? If he remained in 
utter ignorance of her comings and goings, how could he 
be certain that the weight of that past sin would not ulti- 
mately fall on the head of its victim ? 

He had read his letters before the ladies made their ap- 


232 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


pearance; read them leaning against the window-frame in 
the little morning parlor, in the same spot he had stood 
that other morning, when he had seen Lady Mirfield hurry- 
ing up the side path with that deep-bordered letter in her 
hand — the letter which had announced Arthur Mirfield’s 
death at Leuville; the letter which had been the warning- 
note of the storm of trouble and grief which followed. 

When Molly came down to breakfast he was still standing 
there in the window, so absorbed in his own meditations 
that he almost forgot to acknowledge her entrance. 

Molly saw his preoccupation at a glance, and put her 
own interpretation on it. Since Charlotte’s return she 
had seen the advance toward an understanding between 
her and Abney which had taken place during the anxious 
time of Daisy’s illness, and she told herself that Abney 
was beginning to allow himself to hope. 

All through breakfast-time she was conscious that he 
was fighting with his abstraction; and by-and-bye, when 
Parker brought a message from his master asking Mr. 
Garth to do him the favor of coming to him in his room, 
she turned with a quizzical smile to Lady Mirfield. 

“ More mystery !” she said. “ It never rains but it pours. 
First our champion of self-control is, for once, so overcome 
by some secret infiuence that he has to be asked three times 
for the marmalade, and then grandpapa breaks through 
his livelong rule of remaining invisible to the eyes of the 
outer world until he is in full review order. What does it 
mean, Lotte?” 

But Lady Mirfield made no answer beyond a shake of 
her fair head. She was herself a little disconcerted by Ab- 
ney’s air of mystery. 

They were gathering up their letters and making their 
own move from the table when Garth came back again, 
looking less like himself than ever, and asked Molly if she 
would come to Lord Netley’s room for a few moments. 

She went at once, without an instant’s demur. There 
was a touch of scare in her eye as she met Garth’s intent 
glance, but she held her own gallantly until she was out- 
side the room, throwing back a laughing word or two to 
Charlotte from the door, about her first glimpse into Blue- 
beard’s chamber. 


IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OF YOUR HOUSE?” 233 




But the instant the door closed behind her and she was 
alone with Garth her manner changed. 

“What is it?” she asked in a quick, terrified whisper. 
“ Is it the grave at Leuville?” 

“ No,” he answered, hurrying her along the hall and up 
the staircase. “ It is farther back. Somebody is busying 
themselves with the Philpott episode at the Camel and 
Howdah. Keep steady!” he said, as she choked back a 
frightened cry. “All that is needed from you is a firm, 
steady denial, and the whole thing will be finished and 
done with at once. I would not have put you to the or- 
deal if I could have avoided it, but this is a danger that is 
best defeated by showing an unflinching front. Don’t 
look so frightened, little heroine. There is not the slight- 
est fear of discovery as yet, so long as you only keep a cool 
head.” 

The corridor leading to the rooms occupied by Lord 
Netley and his valet was shut off from the main staircase 
by a baize door. He hurried her along until she was in- 
side this door, and then she leaned against it for a mo- 
ment, her eyes wide open with terror and her hand close 
pressed against her pulsating heart. 

“What a coward I am!” she muttered, with her piteous 
eyes on his face. “ What a paltry coward ! Bully me, 
Abney, bully me well; it will do me good.” 

“The boy!” he said quickly. “Think of the boy! 
Think, too, of Charlotte’s grief and distress if ” 

“ Eight!” she exclaimed, “ right!” She moved from the 
door and stood alone, and softened her stiffened lips with 
her tongue and teeth, forcing the reluctant blood back to 
them, and attempted a little smile. “ Charlotte’s grief is 
the watchword. Go on ; I shall get through it all right. 
Don’t be afraid.” 

The curtains of Lord Mirfield’s bed were drawn — this 
dislike to being seen en deshabille was the last reminiscence 
of those old times when the newspapers used to allude to 
“ the poetry of Lord Mirfield’s appearance ” during a de- 
bate in the House of Commons — and the old man was ly- 
ing with his back to the light, with the clothes and pillows 
piled around and behind him. The face looked very wan 
and shrunken, surrounded by the billowy whiteness of the 


234 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


linen, but the silver-white hair had been brushed back 
from the forehead, and the blue eyes, looking out from the 
wrinkled framework of the eyelids, were as keen and quick 
as ever. They took note at once of Molly’s pallor — a dif- 
ferent thing altogether to the usual clear, transparent color 
of her skin. 

“You are very pale, my dear,” he said, putting out his 
long, slim hand, as Abney set a chair for her by the side of 
the bed. “ Aren’t you well this morning?” 

“ A little headache only,” she answered. “ I never had 
much color, you know.” 

The old man patted her hand and cleared his throat a 
little. It was evident that, now he was face to face with 
her, he did not find it easy to say why he had sent for her. 

He even glanced at Garth, standing gravely regardful of 
them both at the foot of the bed, as if he wished to shift 
the task on to his shoulders ; but the younger man remained 
silently attentive, and Lord Netley, with a dash of impa- 
tience at his own weakness, made his statement as quickly 
as he could. 

“ The fact is, my dear child, somebody has constituted 
themselves your enemy, and wants to harm you in my esti- 
mation. I have had an anonymous letter this morning 
containing a very shocking accusation against you.” 

Molly went a shade paler than before, but her eyes never 
wavered. She kept her quietly attentive gaze on his face, 
and waited for him to go on. 

“ It is such a terrible thing that at first I thought I 
would say nothing at all to you, and just throw the letter 
into the fire ; but Abney seemed to think it would be an 
injustice not to give you a chance of denying the foul 
charge, so we decided to let you read the abominable thing 
for yourself . ” 

“It was very kind of you, Abney,” she said. “ Where 
is this awful accusation?” 

Garth picked up a paper from the table at the foot of 
the bed. 

“ Come to the window,” he suggested. “ You will hardly 
be able to make it out over there. The writing is not the 
most legible in the world. ” 

She did as he told her, with a glance of recognition for 


“ IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OF YOUR HOUSE?” 235 

his thoughtfulness, and he put the dirty, ill-written scrawl 
into her hand, and went back to Lord Netley’s bedside and 
began to talk quietly to him. 

It was perhaps two minutes before Molly came back 
again and took Abney’s place at the foot of the bed, and 
the two men diopped their talk as she came and looked at 
her. 

“ I have read it,” she said, with a queer little break in 
her voice, “ and it is very horrible — all of it. Now what 
part of it do you want me to deny? It says here, at the 
bottom of the second page: ‘Now, the state of the case is 
this — either she was this drunken actor’s wife or she 
wasn’t; if she was, she is not your son’s widow, asPhilpott 
was alive at the time of her second marriage, and perhaps 
is still alive; if she was not his wife, what was she? His 
mistress? If so, do you consider this lady a fit inmate of 
your house, a fit associate for Lord Mirfield’s widow?” 

She put the paper down and straightened her throat, 
just as she had straightened it that day at Leuville when 
she had rehearsed a little scene between herself and Lord 
Netley, for George Mirfield’s edification, and George had 
called it “ a pretty piece of acting.” 

“Well, I deny all that, unreservedly, grandpapa,” she 
said. “ It is either a malicious fabrication or a most sur- 
prising mistake. The only explanation I can think of is 
that I have been mixed up with another actress bearing 
the same name. I never knew a man named Philpott; I 
was never wife to any man but your son; and, on strictly 
moral grounds, I know nothing that renders me unfit to 
be an inmate of your house or an associate of Charlotte’s.” 

She spoke her little speech with her eyes steadily on his, 
though her lips were trembling in a way that made him 
feel he had treated her very badly. 

“ My dear, I am ashamed of myself for letting you see 
the dastardly thing,” he said. You must scold Abney, not 
me. He insisted that I should always be suspicious of you 
if the charge was not faced boldly ; and I wanted to feel 
sure there was no foundation at all in it, Molly. It is true 
we are not a very respectable lot, taking us all the way 
round, but it would have been something new to have had 
a bigamist in the family.” 


236 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


She laughed as if she thought the bigamist idea very 
funny, but the laugh turned with sudden, startling abrupt- 
ness into a burst of sobs, and she leaned her head on her 
hands, at the foot of the bed, and cried. 

Lord Netley’s distress was almost as great as hers. 
“Bring her to me, Abney!” he said, and when she was 
kneeling at his side, within reach, he stroked her down- 
bent head and kissed her cold fingers in a state of the most 
abject penitence. 

“ If I could only find the miscreant who sent the letter,” 
he said wrathfully, “ I would press for the very heaviest 
sentence the law can give for libel. The mean, petti- 
fogging scoundrel, to stab in the dark like this ! Who is 
your cowardly enemy, Molly, my dear? There must be 
some purpose behind an attack of this kind. Surely my 
sister-in-law would never let her jealousy lead her into such 
a deplorable mistake as this?” 

“ Oh, no,” cried Moll, “ she would not do it!” 

“ At any rate she would not do it so immediately after 
all that was said yesterday afternoon,” Garth interposed. 
“ She would see for herself how suspicious it would look 
against her.” 

The force of this argument was undeniable, and yet who 
else had ever shown the faintest animus against Molly, who 
else had any reason to desire her removal? 

“ If I may have a voice in the matter,” she said by-and- 
bye, lifting her tear-stained face from the bed-clothes, “ if 
my wishes may have any weight, I should say, Don’t lift a 
finger to find out who sent the letter ! Let the thing finish 
now, here, this minute — let me throw the cruel thing in 
the fire — and let us forget all about it, as if it had never 
happened.” 

And that was how the matter was finally decided. And 
when Molly went away to her own room to get rid of the 
signs of her tears, it had been settled that the affair was to 
end where it had begun — that nobody but themselves were to 
be any the wiser for the events of the morning. 

Before Abney left Lord Netley’s room he communicated 
the news of his legacy, and obtained leave of absence for a 
few days to attend to his own affairs in London. 

His lordship’s mind was divided over the news. 


“ IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OF YOUR HOUSE?” 237 


For Abney he was unreservedly glad, for himself unde- 
niably troubled. 

“ The thought of losing you had never occurred to me,” 
he said. “ There is not much of life left in me, and I had 
looked forward to having you with me to the end. I shall 
be lost without you, Abney, absolutely lost.” 

“ But I hope you don’t mean to turn me out because my 
grandfather has left his money to me?” answered Abney 
affectionately. “ For these ten years past you have treated 
me more like a son than a dependent ; let me have my turn 
now, sir; let me think of you more as a father than an em- 
ployer. There are certain things that must be seen to, 
but, once they are settled, your call on my time will always 
stand first. I have worked well for the money you have 
paid me, but I will work better still, for mere love of the 
task, if you will still let me look on your house as my 
home. So long as you want me, sir, I shall want to be 
here.” 

Lord Netley put out a shaking hand. 

“ Grood lad!” he said. “You always were a good lad, 
Abney. And your sacrifice won’t be for long, I think; 
you will hardly have time to feel it a sacrifice before it 
will be over.” 

“ I hope not, sir,” answered Abney warmly, “ and I think 
not. You have been a little overpowered by this scene 
this morning, and feel shaken ; but there is many a year 
of useful work before you still.” 

The old man shook his head quietly. “ See me again 
before you start,” he said; “but find out that child now, 
and comfort her if you can. This business has been 
cruelly hard upon her. A nice return for all her bright 
goodness to me, isn’t it, to break her heart with such an 
accusation as that? Find her out, Abney, and tell her 
how sorry I am that she should have been so upset.” 

“ I’ll tell her what will please her more than that, sir,” 
returned Abney, from the door; “I’ll tell her that you 
count on her help while I am away. Nothing pleases her 
so much as to feel that she is of real use to you.” 

He went at once to the other side of the house, where 
Molly’s rooms and the nurseries all opened on to one small 
upstair hall. She apparently heard him coming, for she 


238 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


opened the door of her sitting-room before he got up to .it, 
and beckoned him in. 

“I hoped you would come,” she said, walking restlessly 
about the room as she spoke. “ I want to talk to some- 
body ; it hurts me to have to keep silence when I’m in this 
state. Abney, it was horrible ! Horrible to have to dodge 
round the truth in that way ! I don’t think I could face 
out many scenes like that. It was simply horrible !” 

She put her hands up before her eyes, as if in that way 
she hoped to shut out the memory of what she had gone 
through. 

“ I don’t think I really realized the frightfulness of my 
position while I was there, in his presence, with all my 
mind bent on keeping the truth from him. It would be 
terrible for him to know now, Abney — a thousand times 
worse than if he had known from the first. Abney, who 
wrote that letter?” 

The question was put with a sudden change of tone, 
and she stopped her walk to face him. 

“Is it Mrs. Mirfield? How does she know anything 
about that old, old affair? I thought Molly de Courcy’s 
past was buried out of sight and hearing forever. If I 
could have foreseen such a thing as this coming up against 
me, I don’t think I should ever have undertaken the task 
of trying to live down the prejudice against those theatri- 
cal experiences. It would have been better — oh, much 
better! — for my boy and me to have hidden our heads 
humbly from the first, than to run the risk of discovery 
and disgrace so late in the day as this. Who is it that is 
poking and prying about and hunting up these things 
against me?” 

Garth shook his head. He was looking grave and anx- 
ious, as if he fully realized the peril of the situation, and i 
was at the same time solicitous to spare her if he could. 

“ I cannot conceive who else but Mrs. George Mirfield 
would trouble themselves to set Lord Netley’smind against 
you; and yet I can’t think she would have gone straight 
home, after yesterday afternoon’s talk, and written that 
letter. She is too shrewd; she would, at least, have waited 


“ IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OF YOUR HOUSE?” 239 

a few days, until we had had time to forget her scarcely 
concealed attack on you.” 

“ Then there is somebody else working against me!” she 
cried, with a horrified little gesture. “ Abney, I had bet- 
ter throw the game up, and run away and hide myself from 
the poor old man’s fury and Charlotte’s reproaches. The 
whole truth must come out, and I can’t face the shame 
and the suffering that is bound to come with it. I had 
better go and hide my head somewhere.” 

He caught her restless hands and held them firmly, as if 
to compel her to greater self-control. 

“ My dear little friend, listen to me. If you won’t be 
calm for your own sake, be calm for mine. Think what 
it must be to me to see you in this distressed state, and to 
know that it has been brought about through my instru- 
mentality. If you could know what a reproach it is to 
me ” 

“ You mustn’t say ihat!” she broke in. “ I won’t hear 
you blame yourself for a moment! You have been my 
strength and defence all through. Don’t notice what I 
am saying just now, Abney. I am half hysterical with 
fear and excitement. I never meant to blame you, never ! 
I shall talk differently to-morrow, when I have got . back 
my scattered senses.” 

“ But I want you to get them back now, this moment, 
he told her, smiling encouragingly down into her white, 
wild little face. “ I want to talk serious business with 
you, and how can I do it while you look at me in that 
scared, piteous fashion? Let me tell you something about 
myself. A change of thought will steady you, perhaps. I 
have had news this morning of the death of my mother’s 
father — a man I never saw in my life, so I may be excused 
from making any formal protestations of grief — and he 
has left all his money to me.” 

“Oh, I am glad,” she said, wringing his hands with 
tremulous eagerness ; “ indeed, Abney, I am glad ! I knew 
there was something at breakfast-time. Shall you be rich, 
Abney — as rich as you want to be?” 

He had touched the right string in making a demana 
upon her sympathy. 


240 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“As rich as I want to be?” he repeated, meeting her 
glance with a touch of consciousness. “ Is any man ever 
that? And, besides, I don’t think any amount of mere 
worldly riches would give me confidence in the way you 
mean; but at any rate I am not at such an impossible dis- 
advantage as when I had nothing in the world beyond 
Lord Netley’s salary to share with any one.” 

Knowing him so thoroughly, she knew this was a great 
deal for him to say. 

“ I am so glad for you,” she said again. “ I always told 
you you would be happy some day. I can’t be as enthusi- 
astic as I ought to be over your good fortune — all the glad- 
ness is crushed out of me just now by this other awful 
business — but nobody will be more delighted over your 
happiness than I shall, Abney.” 

“Ah, now you are taking too much for granted,” he ex- 
claimed. But even as he said it his hopefulness would 
show itself in his face, glimmering through the self-repres- 
sion which had stood the test of ten years’ wear and tear. 

His iron self-control had stood out against all those days 
and months and years of hopeless endurance, but it seemed 
likely to melt at the first warm breath of happy anticipa- 
tion. Perhaps he felt something of this himself, and 
shrank sensitively from the fear of becoming effusive. To 
a man of his disposition some such idea would certainly 
present itself. He turned the talk back abruptly from his 
affairs to hers. 

“ Of course there are lots of things to be seen to in con- 
nection with my grandfather’s estate. I am going up to 
London to-day, and while I am there I shall try to find 
out who it is that is busying themselves about the affair 
v/ith Philpott. If necessary I will try to find out his pres- 
ent whereabouts, and make it worth his while to keep out 
cf the way.” 

“Ah, no, don’t do that!” she cried. “There is danger 
that way, Abney. We can’t touch those theatrical experi- 
ences without grave risk. Think what might happen if 
that poor unhappy wretch forced himself into my presence. 
Let the past rest, Abney; let it rest, I beg of you!” 

“But we dare not,” he answered her. “Can’t you see 
for yourself that y;o dare not? Suppose the writer of that 


“ IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OF YOUR HOUSE?” 241 

letter goes a step farther? Scores of people know where 
Arthur Mirfield’s wife came from. Suppose this person 
who is busying him or herself with your past goes to the 
Camel and Howdah Theatre, and finds out Philpott’s pres- 
ent whereabouts, and persuades the man to come down 
here, and confronts you with him?” Molly put her clasped 
hands across her lips to check the involuntary cry of fright 
which the suggestion wrung from her. “Where should 
Ave be then? Left standing exposed to the gaze of every- 
body, with our house of cards lying low around us. This 
unhappy man must be found if possible, and it must be 
made worth his Avhile to keep quiet. Hush! There is 
Lady Mirfield asking for you outside. Can you see her?” 

Molly went and opened the door herself. 

“ Did you think I was lost, Lotte?” she asked. “ I have 
had bad news, dear. Grandpapa has heard something about 
my people — those impossible people who belong to that 
terrible past of mine, Lotte. It has upset me thoroughly ; 
but you mustn’t ask me anything about it, dear; it hurts 
me to talk about it.” 

“Poor little woman!” Charlotte said pitifully, stooping 
to kiss her tear-stained face. “ Do you know about it, 
Abney? But of course you do ! You are adviser and com- 
forter in ordinary to the household. I’m jealous of you, 
Mr. Garth. Why should you be more in this young 
Avoman’s confidence than I am?” 

“And Abney has had news, too, this morning,” Molly 
resumed. “May I tell her, Abney? The most lovely, 
most wonderful news, Lotte! It is a case of Cinderella’s 
fairy godmother over again — only, of course, the sexes are 
reversed all the Avay round. In this case it is a fairy 
grandfather who is to shower good gifts on the quiet, hard- 
working stay-at-home — coaches and horses, and lands and 
houses, and jewels galore. And, of course, among the 
other things must be included the traditional handsome 
sweetheart — a she sweetheart, you know. It is a genuine 
fairy-story in real life, Lotte, my dearest, complete in all 
its details, and completest of all in its beautiful, gracious, 
smiling princess, who stands at his elboAV Avaiting to be 
asked for her lily-white hand. By the bye, are your hands 
lily-white, Lotte? It is rather an awkward qualification, 
16 


24:2 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


but it is a rigid laiv in all fairy-tales that tlie princess 
shall ” 

“What are you talking about, Molly?” Charlotte broke 
in, with a scandalized glance in Abney’s direction. “ Has 
your bad news made you light-headed?” 

“Ask Abney,” she answered, smiling through her tears. 
“Ask Abney to tell you the story of how Jacob served 
fourteen years for Eaehel. After all, I think that story 
fits the present situation better than the pumpkin coach 
and the lily-handed princess. Ask Abney to tell you his 
wonderful news, Lotte, and come to me when you have 
heard it all and tell me what you think of it.” 

And with this last piece of advice she got out of the 
room, and left the two of them looking at one another in a 
kind of breathless anticipation. 

“He made me feel very humble,” Charlotte told her, 
later in the day. “ It filled me with wonder to hear him 
talking so quietly of having loved me all these years. Just 
think of it, Molly, living in the same house with a man 
for four years, and never finding out that he thinks of you 
in that way ! It is wonderful ! . . . Am I going to marry 
him ? I hope so, my dear. Such is my intention at pres- 
ent. I feel like a foolish school-girl about it, Molly — a 
school-girl with her first sweetheart ! I suppose it sounds 
rubbishy to hear an old widow talking like that; but my 
first marriage was one long self-reproach to me. I always 
felt I had committed a great injustice toward poor Lionel 
in accepting him. This time there will be nothing of 
that kind to mar our perfect understanding. It is my 
first case of reciprocal Affection, Molly, so you must bear 
with me while I gush a little over it.” 

And Molly bore with it beautifully. She sat the after- 
noon through listening to the other’s discussion of the 
happiness in store for her. Very wan-eyed and white she 
was after the trying ordeal of the morning ; but her sym- 
pathy was as ready as ever, and she was as quick to enter 
into Charlotte’s joys as she had been before to share her 
sufferings. 

Some perception of this broke on Charlotte, when the 
sitting came at last to an end with the announcement of 
visitors and the arrival of the tea-tray. 


“ IS THIS LADY A FIT INMATE OP YOUR HOUSE?” 243 

“ What a treasure you have been to me, Molly!” she said 
as she rose ; “ I don’t mean to-day only, but ever since I 
first saw your nice eyes, all heavy with crying — as they are 
to-day, you poor little soul — looking at me, pityingly, from 
the door there, the day Abney brought you home. What- 
ever I should have done without you, my dear, I don’t 
know. You have been just the dearest, the most sympa- 
thetic, the brightest little friend a woman ever had.” 

“Yes?” said Molly interrogatively, with a wistful little 
smile. “ It is nice to hear you say it, Lotte; and yet it is 
miserable too. There is a touch of farewell about it, I 
fancy. You won’t need my sympathy and support any 
longer. I’ve already been awfully jealous of Abney these 
three days that you have been home, and that is nothing 
to what is before me now. There, go along, my lily- 
handed princess!” she cried laughingly, as Charlotte 
stooped to kiss her. “ Go your ways and be happy, and 
leave Artie and me to brighten grandpapa’s last few years 
of life. One might easily have a less satisfying mission in 
life than that.” 

When Charlotte had got rid of her callers she returned 
at once to Molly, and took up the conversation where they 
had dropped it. It was rather pitiful to see her outspoken 
happiness in her engagement to Abney, because one argued 
from it that nothing less than a very deep sorrow could 
have caused her habitual reserve in speaking of Lord Mir- 
field. 

They were still chatting by the window in Molly’s 
sanctum when Amelia came up to the next room, and be- 
gan putting Molly’s things out ready for dinner. There 
was a door between the two rooms as well as those which 
opened on to the outer passage, and presently, a little to 
Molly’s surprise, Amelia came to the communicating door 
and asked if she should wait. 

Molly was rather struck by something in the girl’s man- 
ner of putting the question, but she was thoroughly aston- 
ished when, instead of retiring the way she had come and 
closing the door behind her, she crossed quickly and noise- 
lessly to the outer door and threw it wide open. 

Lessman was standing outside, with her head bent for- 
ward in an attitude of intent listening! 


244 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


She straightened herself and darted away at the open- 
ing of the door, but not before the people in the room had 
seen her. 

Amelia closed the door again at once and turned to her 
mistress. 

“ I beg your pardon for taking such a liberty, ma’am,*' 
she said, “but I warned Lessman I’d do it the very next 
time I caught her listening. I heard her creep past the 
next room door five minutes ago. She’s always at it, out- 
side the doors and in the passage corners. I told her I 
wouldn’t stand any more of her disrespectful remarks, and 
that I’d show her up, even if I risked losing my own 
place.” 

Molly was at a loss what to say ; Lessman was not her 
servant ; but Charlotte took the matter up at once. 

“ You did quite right, Amelia,” she said. “ I am much 
obliged to you.” 

Lessman left the Fallow that evening, bag and baggage. 
There was a tearful scene between her and Lady Mirfield, 
in the course of which she made several attempts to slip 
in an insinuation to the effect that Lady Mirfield was 
“nourishing a viper in her bosom;” but she stopped when 
Charlotte told her she was only doing herself harm, and 
asked her how she could expect to get another situation 
without a character. 

She called upon Mrs. Mirfield, as she passed the house 
outside the lodge gates, hoping for a little sympathy ; but 
finding she was no longer likely to be of use, Mrs. Mirfield 
received her with chilling frigidity, and then Lessman 
broke down entirely. 

“ I can earn my own living always,” she sobbed, rubbing 
her eyes and nose till they all looked as if they had run 
indiscriminately into one big, shining red smudge. “ It 
isn’t that I mind, but it’s being tore away from my pretty 
darling that’s breaking my heart. And I didn’t expect 
you’d turn on me like this, seeing that it’s mostly through 
you I’ve come to trouble. If I hadn’t been so anxious to 
help you on with what you’re trying to do, I shouldn’t 
have lost my place. It 'will be a lesson to me, though. 
Never again shall Ann Lessman be made a tool of by any- 
body. I think you’d look rather foolish, Mrs. Mirfield, if 


“l WAS THE INDIRECT CAUSE,” ETC. 245 

I was to write to his lordship, and tell him it was you as 
egged me on to poke and pry and hear all I could about 
Mrs. Arthur.” 

“Now, look here, Lessman,” said Mrs. Mirfield, trying 
to hide how exceedingly unpalatable this idea was to her, 
“ you have been useful to me; I don’t want to deny it for 
one moment, but don’t attempt to put the loss of your 
place down to me. You have managed badly; that is the 
beginning and end of this affair. You have made the mis- 
take that all you servants do — you have talked too much. 
You have been running Mrs. Arthur down, and Amelia 
has retaliated on you. Is that my fault? Still, I confess 
you have been useful, and so I will help you if .1 can. If 
your new mistress will be satisfied with a written character, 
I will give you one.” 

And so Lessman departed from the neighborhood of 
Cramlingford, taking with her a carking memory of the 
ingratitude of human nature in general and Mrs. George 
Mirfield’s in particular. 

And Molly, alert and anxious, lay awake the best part 
of the night, asking herself what Lessman had hoped to 
hear outside the door of her sitting-room, and wondering 
if there was any connection between that incident and the 
anonymous letter of the morning. 

It seemed to her that her enemies were thickening 
around her. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“l WAS THE INDIRECT CAUSE OF ARTHUR MIRFIELD’S 
MESALLIANCE.” 

When Clem Borthwicke received his sister’s letter with 
the account of the conversation between her and Marcus 
Kelper, and of the allusion to Mr. Royston, member of 
the Dodos’ Club, he docketed the information for future 
use. He had already made an appointment with Claxton 
to visit the Camel and Howdah Theatre that evening, to 
obtain the promised introduction to Tom Desmond, Phil- 


246 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


pott’s old friend ; but if nothing came of that interview he 
would fall back on this Mr. Eoyston, who had been present 
at Arthur Mirfield’s marriage, and who had tried to pre- 
vent the match between his friend and Molly de Courcy. 

It was not the first time by many that Borthwicke had 
visited an actor in his dressing-room, but, even to his 
sophisticated glance, there was something rather gruesome 
in the dirty fioor, the seatless chairs, the frameless looking- 
glass, and the broken, rag-stufied window panes of Tom 
Desmond’s dressing-room at the Camel and Howdah. 

It was after the second act of “ The Madman’s Legacy ” 
that Claxton took him round, and they found Mr. Des- 
mond busy efl^ecting that change in his personal appearance 
which five years of mental anguish and prison fare infalli- 
bly produce in the heroes of transpontine melodrama. 

He paused for a moment in his quick, skilful manipula- 
tion of the grease paints, to give his hand to Borthwicke, 
and returned at once to his task of creating artificial hol- 
lows in his cheeks and lines of suffering about his lips, 
with an apology for his hurry. 

“I’m on at the beginning of the act,” he explained, 
“ and it is a confoundedly heavy change. I shall be able 
to talk to you when I come up after this scene. Beastly 
hole to receive you in, isn’t it? I would not have asked 
you into such a dirty den, but Claxton told me you wanted 
to talk about poor old Philpott, and that it might be doing 
him a good turn to see you, so I ave in. He was a rack- 
ety scamp was poor old Phil, but all the same we were all 
very fond of him, and it’s a desperate thing to see a man 
with his talent go under as he’s gone.” 

“Drink, I suppose?” said Borthwicke, and the other 
nodded assent, working busily meanwhile at an artistic 
patch of gray paint under his eye, intended to produce an 
appearance of haggard distress from the front of the house. 

He was still hard at work with his pigments and powders 
when the call-boy knocked at the door, with the announce- 
ment “ Act going up!” and he had to make a rush for it, 
slipping on his convict’s blouse as he went. But he was 
back in a very few minutes, and when he had done the 
hospitality of the dressing-room he made a free offer of all 
the information he possessed concerning Philpott. 


“l WAS THE INDIRECT CAUSE,” ETC. 247 

“Ask me what you like, and if I can answer you I will.” 

“Then, to begin with,” said Clem, “can you give me 
his present address?” 

“ Not with certainty. I met a man at Derby railway 
station a few Sundays ago — you meet the whole profession 
at Derby railway station on a Sunday; it is a great centre, 
you see — and this man told me he had heard that Philpott 
had been packed off by his landlady to the workhouse in- 
firmary, and from there he had goi^e on to the Red cross 
Asylum. Aggravated case of D. T.’s, I suppose.” 

Borthwicke looked cornered. He could not hope to get 
much satisfaction out of a lunatic under control. 

“He may he out again by now, you know,” Desmond 
added. “ The chap who told me about it knew nothing 
about dates.” . 

“I don’t think he is out, Desmond,” put in Claxton, 
from his seat on the end of the toilet sheljf. “ If he had 
been at liberty he would have been down to see you before 
now. I never knew him hold out till Friday night before. ” 

“There is something in that,” Desmond admitted. 
“ The poor old chap keeps a pretty sharp eye on the bills; 
he knows fast enough when any of his old pals are knock- 
ing about within reach.” 

“ Did you know Miss de Courcy — the girl he married at 
Birmingham?” Borthwicke asked, working round by de- 
grees to the subject of the earlier marriage. “ And did 
you know his first wife at all?” 

“His first wife?” Desmond repeated, .ywith an inquiring 
glance. “ Had he more than one? I never heard of her.” 

Borthwicke’s little black eyes twinkled. 

Was Molly de Courcy Mrs. Philpott after all, then, and 
was his nephew, George Mirfield, the legal heir-presump- 
tive to the earldom of Netley? 

‘ “ He said himself that he had another wife, Tom,” Clax- 

ton jerked in, from his corner. 

“Lookers-on see most of the game,” is one of the few 
proverbs to which the exceptions are few and far between. 
Sitting in his distant corner, puffing quietly at his pipe, 
Claxton had seen something in Borthwicke’s manner that 
made him suddenly suspicious of his motives. Why should 
this energetic, business-like stranger look so gratified by 


248 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


the probability that Molly de Courcy’s marriage with Mr. 
Mirlield might turn out a mere empty form ? 

“ He swore to little De Courcy that he had already a wife 
living when he married her.'’ 

“Did he, though!’’ exclaimed Desmond. “Oh, well, I 
know nothing to the contrary; he knew more about it than 
anybody else, I suppose. The earlier marriage must have 
belonged to his private life then, before he Joined the pro- 
fession. I never heard of another Mrs. Philpott.” 

“ She was known by his private name, perhaps,’’ Borth- 
wicke suggested airily. “What was his own name? Do 
you know?’’ 

“ I did know, but I’ve forgotten. It was an ordinary 
sort of name — Jackson, or Williams, or Harris, or some 
such name as that.’’ 

Borthwicke said one or two unpleasant things to himself 
anent people with memories like sieves. It would have 
been a very real gratification to him at the moment to 
have called Desmond a thick-headed idiot to his face; but 
since that was out of the question, he did the next best 
thing possible under the circumstances, and left the way 
clear for making what use he could of him in the future. 

“Don’t you see, you know,” he began, reverting to his 
catch-phrase, as he warmed up to his work, “ independently 
of my desire to sketch Philpott from life, I am greatly in- 
terested in anything that concerns Molly de Courcy that 
was. If you hear any news of Philpott, I should take it 
as a very great favor if you would let me know where he is 
to be found. I shall try the Eedcross Asylum meantime, 
but I fancy there is not much chance there. They get rid 
of their patients with as little delay as possible.” 

Desmond was genuinely sorry to have been of no use, 
and expressed his annoyance with true bohemian hearti- 
ness : 

“ What I can do I will, you may depend on it,” he said, 
as he escorted his guest down the grimy, rickety stairs 
leading from the dressing-rooms to the stage door.“ “ I’ll 
ask about among the other boys who knew the poor old 
chap, and if I hear anything I will let you know with as 
little delay as possible.” 

The next morning, as soon as he had attended to his own 


“l WAS THE INDIRECT CAUSE,” ETC. 249 

correspondence, Borthwicke started off for Kedcross. The 
more he burrowed into this affair the more it interested 
him. Perhaps Desmond’s admission that he had never 
heard of any Mrs. Philpott but the lady whose professional 
name was Molly de Courcy, had done more than all the 
rest to whet his appetite for the task in hand. He had 
set his mind on marching this drink-sodden wretch down 
to Netley Fallow, and projecting him, so to speak, like a 
devastating bomb into the presence of the audacious hussy, 
who was carrying on such an artful game with that dodder- 
ing old fool Lord Netley. 

By this time he had worked himself so thoroughly into 
the spirit of the thing that he felt it as a personal matter 
that this scheming little adventuress should be punished 
for her gross presumption. It was natural that the money 
aspect of the case should interest him more than any other. 
The amount this woman and her bastard had cost the 
Netley estate he looked upon as so much hard and fast rob- 
bery from the pockets of his nephew, and, since there was 
no hope of getting the cash back, his usurious soul was 
bent on full repayment in the form of “ taking it out of 
the debtor.” 

If he found Philpott down at the Bedcross Asylum, he 
would move heaven and earth to get him out for a couple 
of days — even if he had to take the responsibility of his 
removal on himself — and trot him down to Netley Fallow 
and risk the consequences. 

It was striking twelve when he reached the gates of the 
asylum, and, as he lifted his hand to ring for admission, 
the heavy iron door was opened from the inside to let an- 
other visitor out — a tallish, well-built man, with clear-cut 
features, dark, deeply set eyes, and just the very faintest 
suggestion of a stoop in his shoulders, which looked like 
the outcome of studious habits. 

As he passed out, with a courteous “ Good-morning” to 
the gatekeeper, Borthwicke looked inquisitively at him, 
wondering if he was a discharged patient. But the doc- 
tor’s first words set his mind at rest on that point. 

“ It is really a most extraordinary thing your coming 
here to inquire after this man Philpott this morning,” he 
said, when he had heard the object of Borthwicke’s visit. 


250 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ a most extraordinary thing ! I have only this moment said 
good-morning to another gentleman who came on the same 
errand. You must have met him as you came in — a clean- 
shaven man, with dark eyes and a slight stoop — looked 
rather like a clergyman.” 

“Or an actor, perhaps,” suggested Borthwicke, his 
thoughts turning instantly to Desmond and his promise to 
set inquiries going among Philpott’s old chums. “ Yes, I 
saw him at the gate, and wondered if he was an outgoing 
patient.” 

“ A very unlikely object for mania, I should say,” an- 
swered the doctor, “ too thoroughly master of himself for 
any leaning in that direction. I should say your guess at 
his calling was very wide of the truth. There was no trace 
of the sock and buskin about him, not even of the refined 
sock and buskin of the present-day actor. There was no 
flexibility in the face — expressive enough, but not a touch 
of the mercurial.” 

“ And he came, you say, to inquire after this poor devil 
of a Philpott?” Borthwicke put in, anxious to get him 
back to the point. “ I suppose, by that, Philpott is no 
longer here?” 

“No; he went out only this day week. Four months 
he was with us, without a single soul making an inquiry 
after him, and now, before he has been gone a week, here 
are two of you! What has happened to him all at once? 
Has he come into a fortune?” 

“ Not that I know of, doctor.” 

“ Well, it would not be much good to him now if he had. 
The poor fellow is in the last stage of a galloping consump- 
tion. Whatever your business is with him, I advise you to 
lose no time; he won’t last through the winter.” 

“ Can you tell me where he went to from here?” 

“ I believe he was going back to his wife.” 

“ What!” 

In his surprise he nearly shouted the word ; and seeing 
his unlimited astonishment, the doctor in turn looked 
curious. 

“I thought, at least I heard,” floundered Clem, desper- 
ately afraid of committing himself in the midst of all 
his amazement, “ I heard that his wife was dead years ago. 


“l WAS THE INDIRECT CAUSE,” ETC. 251 

don’t you see you know, doctor. Good Heavens! you’ve 
bowled me clean over with your talk of his going back to 
her. Are you sure he has gone to her?” 

“ No, indeed, I am not ! I only know he said he was 
going. Molly had influential friends, he said — he always 
spoke of her as ‘Molly’ — and badly as he had behaved to 
her, he knew she would not see him want if he only screwed 
up his courage to make an appeal to her.” 

“ Well,” said Borthwicke, “well, this beats me hollow! 
It’s his second wife that he has gone .to, then. I thought 
at first you meant the other. Well, I hope he has gone to 
her, that is all I can say ; personally it will save me a heap 
of trouble. Good-day, doctor. Sorry to have troubled 
you for nothing. You’ve given me the biggest surprise 
I’ve had for many a day, don’t you see you know, and I’m 
not quite certain yet if I’m on my head or my heels. 
Good-day.” 

His excitement was real enough of its kind, but it did 
not dim the trained shrewdness of his reasoning powers. 
Now was the time to bring the thing to a head, while Phil- 
pott was in the mind to make his claim on Molly. 

As he went out of the gates he inquired of the lodge- 
keeper the nearest way to a telegraph office, and sent off a 
long message to his sister, asking if there had been any 
signs of a shabby stranger inquiring after Mrs. Arthur at 
the Fallow. 

The answer did not reach him until six o’clock. Mrs. 
Mirfield had been to the Fallow in the mean time and in- 
terviewed the servants, but it contained some genuinely 
exciting news. 

There was a shabby stranger now staying at the Cram- 
lingford village inn, who had made several attempts to see 
the ladies at the Fallow. 

Clem felt like going down to Cramlingford himself; but 
then, if he stood face to face with this Philpott, he could 
not swear to him. What he wanted was somebody who 
knew the man. Where could he find somebody who would 
go to Cramlingford with him, and identify this broken- 
down comedian? 

And in answer to the question his thoughts flew to his 
sister’s letter, the letter she had written after her walk 


252 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


with Kelper, in which she gave Clem the information 
about that Mr. Eoyston, who had acted as the bride’s pu- 
tative father at Arthur Mirfield’s marriage. 

Perhaps this man, having been mixed up in the affair, 
knew Philpott by sight. Could he induce him to go 
down to Cramlingford? He would go down to the club 
and see him in any case, and steer his course according to 
the nature of the ground as he went forward. He must 
see the man and take his measure before he could decide 
on the method of attack ; but get him down to Cramling- 
ford by hook or by crook he would, if he turned out likely 
to be of any use. 

Circumstances favored his first advance. 

It often happens during the month of October that, even 
in the best organized whist clubs, there is a little difficulty 
in getting a congenial quartet together for a rubber. 

Philip Eoyston was realizing this for himself, as his gaze 
travelled despairingly round the half-deserted card-room 
on this particular evening, and he had just arrived at the 
mournful conclusion that it would be a case of “ dummy or 
nothing” when Clement Borthwicke’s card was brought to 
him. 

Of the name or its owner he knew absolutely nothing, 
and with three congenial spirits within reach that worthy 
man would have received but a scant allowance of the most 
freezing courtesy at the hands of the inveterate whist 
player. 

But circumstances alter cases. In the present state of 
the playing strength he was glad of anything which prom- 
ised a little assistance toward killing the night. He went 
to the reception room, feeling almost grateful toward the 
stranger who promised him a few minutes’ diversion. 

Borthwicke’s quick, shrewd black eyes took him in as 
he came — neat, dapper, thin, upright, gray hair and 
whiskers, scrupulously brushed, frank brown eyes, a well- 
carried head, and a glance as direct as a three-year-old’s. 
The items were all catalogued as he crossed the room, and 
the deduction, “one of your nasty-particular parties,” 
arrived at before he had unclosed his lips to invite his vis- 
itor to a seat. 

The little money-lender had been too long in the habit 


“l WAS THE INDIRECT CAUSE,” ETC. 253 

of reckoning up liis customers in a glance to make the 
mistake of allowing this man to see that he was to he made 
a tool of. This was a fish that needed the most delicate 
handling; the smallest strain on the line and he would be 
off out of reach, leaving the angler a hook the poorer 
for his pains. 

“ You are wondering what is the object of this visit,” 
began Clem, as an easy opening to the conversation ; “ but 
the fact is somebody mentioned your name to a sister of 
mine the other day, and she asked me to call on you and 
find out if you ever had any relations in the West Riding. 
She is mixed up in the administration of some property — 
reversionary interests under an old will, I believe it is — 
and there is a hue and cry after a missing man of the same 
name as you.” 

This was rather neat as an impromptu effort. He felt 
distinctly pleased with himself, as he paused and waited 
the effect of his cast. 

“ Royston? Is it a man of the name of Philip Royston 
you want, Mr. Borthwicke?” 

“ Royston is certainly the name ; about the first name I 
am not sure. Are you a Yorkshire man?” 

“ Not myself ; hut my family comes from the North of 
England. An old will, you say. I wonder if by any 
chance it is a windfall for me?” 

Olem smiled an inward smile of self-praise. He had 
hooked his fish, surely he could play and land him. 

“ Well, my sister, Mrs. Mirfield ” 

“Mirfield! Any relation of Lord Netley’s?” 

“ She married the present earl’s brother.” 

“ Ah ! I know, or rather I did know some of the Mir- 
fields very well. Before Lord Netley came into the title 
he and I were youngsters together under the last Derby ad- 
ministration. Later on I knew his sons as young men 
about town. The second son, Arthur, I knew intimately, 
until his unhappy marriage put an end to ” 

“Unhappy!” interjected Clem. 

“Unhappy only from the point of view of birth, I 
mean,” Royston added immediately. “As far as domestic 
happiness went, I believe the bliss of the young people was 
unruffled by a single cloud. But a mhalliance of that 


254 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


kind is always to be regretted ; and though Arthur per- 
suaded me into standing father at the wedding, it is a sub- 
ject upon which I always have, and always shall, feel very 
sensitively, -Mr. Borthwicke. You see, I was the indirect 
cause of Arthur Mirfield’s marriage, and my conscience 
has always pricked me on the matter. An old college 
chum of mine, a^ man named Claxton, had written the 
pantomime for that rowdy place of amusement across the 
water, and he asked me to go and see it. Well, I went, 
and took Arthur with me, and Claxton took us behind the 
scenes and introduced us to the company. And that was 
the beginning of the mischief.” 

Then Eoyston had certainly met Philpott, was Clem’s 
rapid deduction, and would recognize him again. He 
must be enticed down to Cramlingford somehow. Clem 
was a little bewildered by this new combination of atoms, 
though, working in a circle as he was, he was bound to 
cross and recross the same ground continually. 

“ It is lucky the business turned out as well as* it did,” 
he said. “ It might have been much worse. ” 

“Not much, I think,” Eoyston answered quietly, and 
the other saw in a flash that this “ nasty- particular party” 
had reason enough in his own mind for his opposition to 
the marriage. 

“ At any rate,” said Clem tentatively, “it has been an 
undoubted success from the lady’s point of view; she has 
tumbled into a veritable clover patch. My sister tells me 
that Lord Netley makes a tremendous fuss over the mother 
of his only grandson.” 

“Well, I’m exceedingly glad to hear it,” returned Eoy- 
ston, in a tone which signified that he had nothing more to 
say on the subject, and Borthwicke shifted his ground 
with the easy rapidity of an old tactician. 

“ I am glad you know these relations of my sister. I 
want to persuade you to go down to Cramlingford with 
me. Mrs. Mirfield asked me to try my best to get you 
down. She wants to get that legacy business settled one 
way or the other, and she thinks a personal interview 
would be the shortest way of doing it. It might be agree- 
able to you to look up Lord Netley while you are there?” 

“ I should certainly like to shake hands with Netley 


“l WAS THE INDIRECT CAUSE,” ETC. 


255 


again,” Royston admitted; “but I am a very poor trav- 
eller, Mr. Borthwicke. I doubt if I have the energy to 
undertake a journey into Yorkshire. It is like tearing a 
limpet off a rock to get me away from London and the 
whist-tables.” 

“Well, I’ll make a bargain with you,” cried Clem. 
“ Come down to Cramlingford with me to-morrow — ^you 
don’t play whist on Sunday, I suppose — and I will under- 
take to provide all the necessary energy for the journey, 
and get you back on Monday evening in time for your 
rubber as usual. My sister will be delighted to put us up 
for the night, and I will call for you, and convoy you from 
your door to hers and land you back again. We shall get 
down just in time for dinner, and you and Alice can have 
your chat about this money afterward, don’t you see you 
know? Then, on Monday morning, we can stroll up to 
pay our respects to Lord Netley and Mrs. Arthur, have an 
early lunch, and be back in London by Monday evening. 
All you will have to do is to put a clean shirt and an even- 
ing coat into a bag, and be ready to start at the appointed 
time.” 

It sounded very easy, and the double temptation of the 
possible legacy and the interview with his old colleague 
was evidently very alluring. He demurred, however, to 
the idea of taking Mrs. Mirfield by storm ; but when he 
had been assured that she had herself proposed that they 
should make use of her house he gave in, and yielded him- 
self up into the enemy’s hands. 

Mrs. George Mirfield ’s small household had already re- 
tired to their rooms that night, when a sudden and impor- 
tant attack on the hall-door bell led to a general opening 
of doors and a chorus of startled inquiries. 

But it was nothing to be alarmed at. Only a telegram 
which, having arrived too late for delivery at the Cram- 
lingford office, had been sent on from the nearest central 
office by mounted messenger : 

“ Royston and I with you at seven o’clock dinner to- 
morrow night. ” 

That was all. Not much to bring such a keen look of 
gratification in Mrs. Mirfield ’s usually inane face. 


256 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


CHAPTER XXL 

DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT BEFOKE A HUNGKY DOG. 

The same Sunday that Mrs. George Mirfield was expect- 
ing her brother and Mr. Royston down to dinner, Char- 
lotte and Molly went to morning service as usual, and — 
also as usual when the day was fine — were met by the two 
children on their way back from church. 

This walk home from church was something of a tri- 
umphal procession for the family from the Fallow. Such 
a doffing of caps and dropping of courtseys saluted them 
from the top to the bottom of the village street, and the 
dofiers and bobbers felt so neglected if their little civilities 
were not acknowledged, that it was quite an anxious time 
with the ladies, and they were in the habit of congratulat- 
ing each other when they reached the shelter of the lodge 
gates and the ordeal was over. 

On this particular Sunday their eyes and attention were 
as much occupied as usual, and so it fell out that they 
neither of them saw a shabby man who was standing at the 
stable-yard gate at the village inn, as they passed by. Had 
Molly but caught a glimpse of him, much that followed 
would have fallen out very differently. 

It was rather surprising that they did not notice him, 
for he was a stranger, and strangers were rather rare com- 
modities at Cramlingford, especially on Sunday mornings. 
Not that he tried in any way to court their attention; in- 
deed, after one quick, searching glance at them he seemed 
to rather shrink back behind the shelter of the wooden 
gates, as if he would avoid being seen. It was perhaps a 
natural impulse this desire to hide himself, for if the 
truth be told there was something horribly incongruous 
between his appearance and his surroundings. His drink- 
sodden countenance and generally disreputable exterior 
looked painfully out of place among the respectable Cram- 
lingford folk, in all the bravery of their Sunday best. The 
pallid flaccidity of his countenance and the ingrained 
grime of his attire were so palpably the results of a stived- 


DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT, ETC. 


257 


lip city existence, under more than usually unwholesome 
circumstances, that his very presence there, amid the 
brilliant, undimmed sunshine, the untainted breeze from 
the moorlands, and the bright-skinned, cleanly Yorkshire 
rustics, was a spot of pollution on the vivid brightness of 
the picture. 

It was comprehensible enough that he should shrink out 
of sight at the approach of the stream of church-goers, and 
that in spite of his evident curiosity 'concerning some of 
them. 

After that quick, keen glance at the party from the 
Fallow, and the subsequent shrinking behind the gate, he 
turned to one of the lads who, in all the glory of spotless 
shirt-sleeves and shining faces, were lounging about the 
yard with their hands in their pockets, in full enjoyment 
of their Sunday morning rest. 

“ Who are the swells?” he asked, and there was that in 
his manner of putting the question which suggested that 
it was only put for form’s sake, or perhaps to make assur- 
ance doubly sure ; “ the two ladies with the children and 
the nurse?” 

They boy nearest him lounged forward through the open 
gate and looked up the street before he answered. 

“ That’s the family from Netley Fallow,” he said. 
“ Lady Mirfield and the Honorable Mrs. Arthur Mirfield ; 
and the little lad is the Lord Netley that will be when the 
old earl has gone oil the hooks.” 

“ And an uncommonly good-looking family, too, I call 
it,” returned the unclean-looking stranger. “It isn’t 
often you see such a handsome lot among the aristocracy. 
The old earl has got reason to bless himself for the good 
taste of his sons. Both dead, aren’t they?” 

“Yes,” answered the stable lad; “both died within a 
week of one another. Lord Netley has never held up his 
head since.” 

“ Poor old chap!” said the other, and shambled carelessly 
away, attracted probably by the sound of clinking glasses in- 
side the house, which betokened the opening of the bar. 

Molly seldom went to church on Sunday afternoon ; she 
got out of the second service as often as she could, for she 
had a habit of slipping into the children’s nursery after 
17 


258 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


luncheon and telling them stories, while the two nurses 
went for an hour’s chat in the servants’ hall. It was about 
the only time that she ever got the small people quite to 
herself, and it would have been difficult to say which of 
the trio enjoyed it most. 

“ You need not come up until I ring,” she would say to 
the delighted young women, and it often happened that 
Charlotte came home from afternoon service and found the 
three of them still squatting on the nursery hearth-rug, 
grown a little quiet and sleepy by this time, but all of them 
exceedingly happy. 

She found them like this on her return from church on 
this particular Sunday afternoon, and she seated herself 
in a rocking-chair near by, and took off her gloves and 
loosened her wrappings, with the manner of a person who 
settles herself for a good spell. 

“ I’ve had something of an adventure this afternoon, 
Molly,” she said, and Molly, at the tone, lifted a tousled 
head and a scorched pair of cheeks to look sleepily at her. 

“An adventure?” she repeated. “I hope it was a nice 
one, Lotte.” 

“Well, no, it was not; not what one would call exactly 
nice — especially happening so directly on Abney’s declara- 
tion. A man followed me up the drive this afternoon to 
beg, and he founded his claim to my generosity on — what 
do you think? On his faithful service to poor Lionel on 
board his yacht!” 

Molly stroked the baby heads on her knee tenderly two 
or three times before she spoke. 

“ Well, seeing that you were never on board the yacht 
in your life, I hardly see that that gave him much claim 
on you,” she said then, gently. 

“ Perhaps not — much,” agreed Charlotte. “But I had 
to give him a ten-pound note.” 

“Oh, Lotte!” 

“ Well, my dear, he preached me such a long sermon 
about the want he and his wife were in. But the worse 
part of it is that I don’t believe a word of his story. I 
don’t believe he was ever steward on board poor Lionel’s 
boat; I don’t believe ho ever had anything to do with 
Lionel at all.” 


DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT, ETC. 259 

“But why?” asked Molly, looking up with an increase 
of interest. 

“ Well, his manner was so odd, so flustered. He said he 
had seen me once or twice in the village with the little 
brown-haired lady — by which, I suppose, he meant you, 
my dear — and he had been under the impression that you 
were Lady Mirfleld.” 

“And again why, Lotte?” 

“ He did not say why, hut he explained that he had only 
that moment discovered his mistake. He asked at the 
lodge if there was any chance of getting a quiet word or 
two with Lady Mirfleld, and they pointed me out to him 
on the drive, a few yards in front of him.” 

“ What was he like, Lotte?” 

“ Oh, a horrible-looking person, with bloodshot eyes and 
smelling of brandy.” 

“What was he doing here in Cramlingford? Did he 
come on purpose to levy blackmail on you?” 

“ I suppose so ; he waited while I got the money and sent 
it down to him. He told me he wanted to get back to 
Leeds to-night.” 

“ Why to Leeds?” 

“ I understood he had soiiie friends there.” 

“Well,” said Molly, “my impression is that you have 
been swindled, my dear. I don’t believe he ever had any- 
thing to do with Lord Mirfleld at all. Take my advice, 
Lotte, if he turns up again, refer him to Abney; he saw 
all the crew of your husband’s yacht. If the man writes 
to you, or tries to see you again, place the matter in Ab- 
ney’s hands, without a word of warning to the man himself . 
Abney will see justice done all round.” 

She got up from her hot seat on the rug as she flnished, 
and pushed the hair oil her face, as if she had rather over- 
done the roasting process. 

“Yes,” said Lady Mirfleld, rising too, “I suppose that 
will be the best plan. But if he really is not the person 
he pretends to be, the chances are that he will be afraid to 
try to trick me again. How shamefully you have burned 
your face, Molly!” 

But Molly went olf to her room with some laughing re- 


260 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


mark about a roasting more or less not being of much con- 
sequence in her case. 

She dropped her smiles, however, when she was alone, 
and it was a very anxious face that looked back at her from 
the toilet glass. 

“ Strange this man should turn up here so soon after that 
letter about Philpott,” she murmured. “ It is true enough 
that troubles never come singly. I wonder, if it is really 
he, what will happen next? Did I speak strongly enough 
about her not seeing him again? I’m afraid not; but I 
get so afraid of overdoing it.” 

She sighed a very tired sigh as she turned away and be- 
gan to make her preparations for dinner. 

And at that same moment Mrs. Mirfield and her brother, 
having shown Mr. Koyston to his room, were holding a 
council of war, in which this self-styled steward of Lord 
Mirfield ’s figured prominently. 

The mysterious stranger mentioned in her telegram had 
arrived at Cramlingford three days ago, and was staying at * 
the village inn. Every evening he sat and drank in the 
parlor with the village trades-people and the farm hands 
from the neighborhood. Nobody had been able to find 
out what was the business thsCt had brought him to the 
place, nor his name, nor how long he was likely to stay. 
He was an elderly man, and seemed in very delicate health, 
and drank heavily. 

“ Our man, sure enough,” chuckled Borthwicke. “ Not 
that I should think Philpott is an elderly man in reality, 
but I expect the pace he has gone at has made him look 
more than his age. The thing now is, how to get him and 
Eoyston face to face. Once I am sure of my man I will 
trot him up to call upon his wife, and see how George’s 
chance for the earldom looks then. Now, what is the best 
plan for getting these two men together?” 

On this point Mrs. Mirfield had no suggestions to offer, 
and there seemed to be no other way but to cajole Eoyston 
into the parlor of the public-house and trust to circum- 
stances. 

“ I must trot him down the village street after dinner, 
and have a convenient touch of colic on the way back, and 
go in for a drop of brandy. He’s one of your starchy old 


261 


DANGLING A PIECE OP MEAT, ETC. 

parties. Short of saving a man from sudden death, he 
would make a strong objection to stepping over the door- 
sill of a village public-house.” 

When Mrs. Mirfield heard the pretext on which Eoyston 
had been dragged down to Yorkshire she looked uncom- 
fortable, but the intrepid Clem begged her not to disturb 
herself. 

“ I never got myself into a fix yet that I could not find 
a way out of,” he said, and proceeded to explain to her his 
plan for extricating them both from their present predica- 
ment. “ There is that advantage about a fairy-story, don’t 
you see you know, Alice” — they were getting quite cordial 
under the influence of a mutual interest — “ when it has 
served its turn it is easily got rid of.” 

Eoyston was still busy removing the soil and dust of the 
journey when Borthwicke knocked at his door. 

Clem had already got into his dinner-coat ; it was a less 
elaborate process with him than with Eoyston, who was 
even bestowing more pains than usual on his personal 
adornment, out of compliment to his hostess. 

Borthwicke came into the room with an air of aution 
and mystery, and closed the door carefully behind him, 
and waited to speak till he had crossed the room. 

“ A great calamity has happened,” he said in a discreetly 
lowered voice. “ My sister is in an awful state of mind 
about it. We have dragged you down all this long dis- 
tance for nothing. Mrs. Mirfield got a letter from India 
last night, too late to wire me, in answer to one of hers. 
The Mr. Eoyston she has been looking for is found.” 

“Oh, is he?” said Eoyston quietly. “Well, that places 
me in a very awkward position, my dear Mr. Borthwicke. 
I am here, a guest in your sister’s house, under false pre- 
tences, don’t you see?” 

“Oh, that be hanged!” exclaimed Clem, with effusion. 
“ Alice feels that she is the guilty party ; she is ready to 
knock her head against the wall with vexation for having 
put you to so much trouble. She blames herself for not 
waiting until the Indian mail was in before she communi- 
cated with you.” 

“ I hope Mrs. Mirfield will do nothing of the kind. 
Please make her understand that it would not give me the 


262 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


least gratification to see her knock her head against the 
wall, and, if it will be of any comfort to her to know it, 
tell her that in undertaking the journey I was far more in- 
fluenced by the thought of seeing my old friend Netley 
than by the hope of this legacy.” 

“ Ah, well, we shall be afte "to manage that for you at all 
events,” Borthwicke answered. “We are at the gates of 
Netley Fallow now. The house is barely five minutes’ walk 
from here. We will go up after breakfast in the morning, 
and we must do the best we can for you meantime. Alice 
will be delighted to have a chat with somebody straight 
from town. It is a great deprivation to her to spend the 
whole year round in this quiet place, but her son has left 
her no alternative.” 

When Koyston had the room to himself again he re- 
sumed his toilet operations, and for a few minutes went 
steadily forward ; and then, in the most critical moment 
of all, in the middle of fixing his tie, a sudden thought 
occurred to him and brought the performance to an abrupt 
stop, leaving him staring in a fixed, absent-minded fashion 
at his own pleasant reflection in the glass. 

This fussy, restless, bustling little Mr. Borthwicke had 
spoken of a letter arriving by the Indian mail last night — - 
Saturday night — “too late for his sister to wire to him.” 
But the Indian mails arrived in London on Wednesday, 
and by no possibility could a letter take from AVednesday 
to Saturday night to travel from London to Yorkshire. 

Why had Mr. Borthwicke told him this lie? The letter 
had certainly not arrived by the Indian mail. Perhaps it 
had not arrived at all. If one part of the tale was false 
the rest might certainly he so too. Perhaps even the whole 
story of the old -yvill and the reversionary interest was a 
concoction from beginning to end ! There was assuredly 
something wrong somewhere, or it would not have been 
found necessary to put him off this legacy business with a 
deliberate falsehood. There was a [most undeniable ele- 
ment of mystery in the affair; what it was he could not 
conceive for the life of him. AVhy this little squib of a 
man, and his altogether too magnificent sister, should have 
gone out of their way to bring him all this distance was an 
enigma. 


DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT, ETC. 263 

From mere force of long-continued habit he had become 
one of the most conventional and methodical of men ; he had 
grown to have an inveterate dislike for anything out of the 
common, and it provoked him to feel he was being mixed 
up in an affair which had some hidden motive behind it. 

But he was not the kind of man to betray his thoughts. 
AVhen he joined his hostess in her really elegant little 
drawing-room — a marvellous arrangement in soft shades 
and half tones — there was nothing in his manner to lead 
anybody to suppose that he was very much on his guard. 
Nevertheless his eyes and ears were mentally very much 
wider open than usual, and he felt dissatisfied with him- 
self when he regained his room, at the end of the evening, 
without having made the smallest advance toward elucidat- 
ing the mystery. 

When Mrs. Mirfield had heard her guest’s door close 
behind him she joined her brother in the dining-room, 
where the two men had gone for their refreshers after bid- 
ding her good-night. 

She saw at once that Clem was in one of his most irri- 
table moods. She saw, too, how recklessly the whiskey had 
been spilled on her polished table, and the cigar-ash strewn 
on her exquisite sideboard, and groaned in spirit. 

Clem turned his head at the sound of the opening door, 
without lifting his feet ofi the back of the chair in front 
of him. 

“ Oh, it’s you,” he said; “ come to hear the report of the 
evening’s doings, I suppose? Well, the whole thing has 
gone to the devil — right to the devil! I schemed my 
attack of colic all right — did the whole thing beautifully — 
got him into the inn parlor among the whole lot of them, 
and found our bird flown ! I got a quiet word with the 
landlord, and put the question straight to him if he had 
any strangers in the house, and he told me he had had one 
since Thursday, but he had left again this evening to go to 
Leeds, where he had some relations. I am in the devil’s 
own temper about it. To think that I should have gone 
to all this trouble for nothing! You can make up your 
mind to one thing — all these vexations and disappoint- 
ments will go down at so much per head in your bill of 
costs, Mrs. Mirfield.” 


264 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Mrs. Mirfield tried to smile, and failed. She was play- 
ing the part of mouse to Clem’s cat again, and, in his 
present delightful mood, she had to accept his pats and 
scratches with as much outward amiability as she could 
command. 

The next day began with one of those exquisite autumn 
mornings when the grass gleams under its burden of dew- 
drops, as if there had been a shower of diamonds in the 
night, when the atmosphere is heavy with the pungent 
odor of rotting leaves, and a soft haze gives to distant ob- 
jects a tender, purplish tint, which makes them filmy and 
semi-transparent and beautiful exceedingly. 

The moment breakfast was over Mrs. Mirfield put on her 
bonnet, and escorted her visitors up the main drive to the 
house. 

“The earl is never visible until eleven,” she told Mr. 
Eoyston; “but Mrs. Arthur is an early riser, and she won’t 
be likely to stand upon ceremony with an old friend like 
you. We shall most likely find her on the ladies’ lawn, at 
the side of the house. You will have plenty to talk about 
until the earl is ready to receive you.” 

“ I am afraid you are making too sure of my welcome,” 
returned Eoyston deprecatingly. “ I don’t know that Mrs. 
Arthur Mirfield ever looked upon me as an especially close 
friend of hers.” 

“ Oh, I prophesy she will be enchanted to see you,” she 
answered. “ You are the first acquaintance whom she has 
ever received at the Fallow. She will be glad enough to 
own so presentable a friend.” 

Eoyston felt there was more spite in this speech than 
was conveyed in the bare words. After all, he was not en- 
joying the prospect of this visit to his old friend as he had 
expected to. For one thing, he was not happy in his pres- 
ent company. He rather flinched at the idea of calling 
upon ladies in company with Mr. Borthwicke — especially 
Mr. Borthwicke in his present snappish temper — and Mrs. 
Mirfield’s grand manners were almost as unpleasant to sub- 
mit to as the entire want of all manner in her brother. 

The punctilious elderly gentleman had gathered that 
this was to be Clem’s first appearance in Lord Netley’s 
house — Mrs. Mirfield would have left him behind if he 


DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT, ETC. 


265 


would have allowed it — and he felt it was something little 
short of desecration to take such a man into such a house 
on a footing of equality. He could net help wondering 
what Netley would think of the uncouth little animal. 

He would have been more comfortable had he known 
that Mrs. Mirfield had hurried the visit forward, on pur- 
pose that a meeting between her brother and her brother- 
in-law might be avoided. Lord Netley never got down to 
the ground-floor during the flrst half of the day now. If 
he received Mr. Eoyston at all he would receive him in his 
study upstairs. 

Mrs. Mirfield took her way to the main entrance. She 
would have liked to show Eoyston how thoroughly at home 
she was by going round directly by a side path to the lit- 
tle side door near the morning parlor ; but with Clem in 
the party she felt this was a little more than she dared to 
do. Charlotte was too truly the great lady to trouble her- 
self about small things, as a rule ; but she was very scathing 
when she did rouse herself to resent a liberty, and she 
would certainly so have resented Mr. Clement Borthwicke’s 
introduction on a footing of familiarity into a house of 
which she was the nominal mistress. 

8o it was by the large double glass doors leading into the 
big, shadowy hall that Mrs. Mirfield entered the house, fol- 
lowed by her two male companions. 

The hall led right through the house, opening at its 
lower end on to the quadrangle at the back, formed by the 
main front and wings, where the tennis courts and croquet 
lawns were. More than half-way down its great length 
huge screens had been placed across, partly to lessen the 
rush of air in stormy weather, partly to cut off the lower 
end and form it into a large parlor, where tea was served 
when a large number of people were playing tennis. The 
space had not been put to this use for a long time past 
now, but the screens still stood there, and it was from be- 
hind these screens that Mrs. Mirfield heard Charlotte’s and 
Molly’s laughter as she looked round the hall for somebody 
to take in her name. 

She signed to the two gentlemen to wait, and went for- 
ward. 

The two ladies were there, dressed for walking, and Mar- 


266 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


cus Kelper, back from cub-hunting, was sitting on a 
sturdy-legged black oak table, reciting his morning’s ex- 
perience for their edification. He was the only one oh the 
party who saw Mrs. Mirfield until she had reached their 
side, the others being too busy with their amusement over 
something he had said to notice her approach. 

“An unearthly hour to pay a visit, is it not?” she said, 
as she shook hands. “ But I have brought my excuse with 
me, in the person of a very old friend of the earl, who is 
anxious to pay his respects before leaving for town again. ” 

Helper’s eyes twinkled as they met Molly’s behind Char- 
lotte’s back ; he was chuckling over the little back-handed 
smack at himself. 

“A friend of grandpapa’s?” said Charlotte, moving a 
step or two toward the opening in the screens; “where is 
he?” 

“It is a Mr. Philip Eoyston,” Mrs. Mirfield answered, 
with feminine inconsequence. “ He came down with my 
brother, Charlotte, and I have brought them both. Clem 
was so anxious to see the house.” 

“Eoyston!” cried Marcus Kelper to Molly, with a dash 
of surprise. They two were left standing by the oaken 
table under the high window, while Charlotte received her 
callers. “Hid you hear what Mrs. Mirfield said? It is 
Mr. Eoyston!” 

“Eoyston?” Molly repeated, saying the name in the man- 
ner of a person who is trying to recall some long-forgotten 
memory. “ Ought I to know him?” 

“ Have you forgotten the name of your own father?” he 
asked lightly. “ It is the man who gave you away when 
you were married. Here he comes. Look — don’t you re- 
member him?” 

But she did not look round as she was bidden. As 
Kelper spoke of Eoyston’s presence at her marriage, her 
face flashed into a sudden waxen pallor, and her eyes went 
instinctively to the doors leading to the gardens; she even 
made an involuntary movement toward them, as if an irre- 
pressible impulse of flight was urging her forward. But 
the voices of the group of people advancing from that side 
checked her, and turned her round abruptly toward Kelper 
again; and the look on her face as she swung round 


DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT, ETC. 267 

haunted him for many a day afterward. It was the look 
of a hare when she feels the hot breath of the hound beat- 
ing at the fur on her flank, the look of a trapped weasel 
when it hears the step of the keeper coming down the path 
through the wood, the look that comes into the eyes of 
any living creature when it knows its destruction is close 
at hand. 

Kelper threw out his hand with an impulse of protec- 
tion, though from what he was to protect her he had no 
idea. “ What is it?” he whispered; but she did not hear 
him. 

The poor, terrified eyes, dark with fear, glanced round 
the corner they were in, as if, cut off from escape, she 
would find some hole in which to hide herself ; but the 
voices and steps of the approaching people were close be- 
hind her now, and she snatched despairingly at Kelper ’s 
outstretched hand and lurched a little forward. 

What instinct prompted him he knew no more than a 
blade of grass knows why it struggles up to the light ; but 
all his life long he congratulated himself on his behavior 
at that moment. 

As she dipped forward in that sudden inertness he threw 
an arm round her and held her firmly. 

“Now, you’ve hurt yourself terribly!” he exclaimed, 
speaking in a way to attract every one’s attention. “ I 
shouldn’t wonder if you have sprained your ankle severely. 
Did you catch your foot in your gown, or was it a mere 
slip on the polish? Come over to the big chair in the 
corner there.” 

And without more ado he bore her, her feet scarcely 
touching the ground, to a large chair, set with its back to 
the light, in the darkest part of the hall. He saw that, 
for some reason or other, the meeting with this Mr. Eoy- 
ston was a great ordeal to her — saw, too, that she could not 
conquer her overmastering fear, and was afraid of the in- 
quiry it would create; and he did the best he could for 
her. 

“How did it happen, Molly, my child?” inquired Char- 
lotte in quick concern, kneeling down by Molly’s chair. 
“ Do you think it is serious? Shall we get you upstairs? 
Is she going to faint, Marcus?” 


268 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


For Molly made no answer, did not seem to be conscious 
that she had been addressed. She sat where they had put 
her, her face strained and rigid and white, looking over 
Charlotte’s head at the tall, straight, slim figure of Mr. 
Boyston. And, white and rigid as the rest of the face was, 
it seemed to Boyston that there was an unspoken prayer 
in the dilated glance she fixed on him. 

Clem Borthwicke, standing a little behind his sister and 
Boyston, saw something curious in the glance too, and 
formed his own conclusions on the subject immediately. 

It was a strange feeling that held them all silently im- 
movable, for a space of time while one might with ease 
have counted ten. Molly white and still, in her dark 
corner, with both hands clasping the big carved elbows of 
her chair; Kelper anxious and watchful at her side; Char- 
lotte kneeliug by her, sorry for her suffering ; and the other 
three people in the full light, Boyston with a face as ex- 
pressionless as a stone mask ; Mrs. Mirfield superciliously 
incredulous of the whole thing; and Clem Borthwicke try- 
ing to keep a watch on every face in the room, his quick, 
small black eyes darting from face to face in unceasing 
vigilance, fearful lest the significance of a word or glance 
should escape him. 

“Molly, my dear, speak to me!” said Charlotte again, 
shaking off the grim, bodeful influence of the moment. 
“Are you in such awful pain, dear girl?” 

“ Let me be your doctor, Mrs. Arthur Mirfield,” said Boy- 
ston, moving forward; and for some occult reason his 
quiet, calm, clear delivery relieved the inexplicable strain 
of the situation in an instant. “ Let me communicate to 
you a little of my gladness at seeing you again. It will 
help you to bear the pain perhaps.” 

Molly watched him as he came toward her, never moved 
her eager glance from his face, and when he reached her 
she gave him a tremulous little hand to shake. 

“ I was glad to hear from Mr. Borthwicke that you were 
prosperous and happy,” he went on, with just the right 
shade of gentle interest in his manner, “ and that Lord 
Netley had taken you to his heart of hearts — you and the 
little boy too. It is so much better for you than having a 


DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT, ETC. 2G9 

lonely home of your own. I hope I was not the cause of 
this misfortune — the twist to your foot?” 

“It was only the wrench — for the moment,” she mur- 
mured, still looking at him in that curiously intent man- 
ner ; “ the pain has gone now.” 

He smiled down into her uplifted eyes, and pressed her 
hand again before he let it go. 

“ See what an excellent doctor I am. Lady Mirfield,” he 
said, turning to Charlotte, who was still kneeling on the 
floor. “ I have healed the hurt at a glance. But, at the 
same time, I think a cold-water bandage might be advis- 
able to prevent future inconvenience.” 

But Molly was not capable of going through with such 
a piece of humbug as all that, and held out sturdily against 
the bandage. 

“ It was the merest wrench,” she declared. “ It is mere 
folly to bother about it. Please let us talk of something 
else.” 

Charlotte was enraptured with Mr. Eoyston. 

When Kelper had taken his departure — not without a 
very grateful glance from Molly’s sweet eyes, and a very 
warm shake of the hand — and word had been sent to Lord 
Netley of Mr. Koyston’s arrival, they settled down for a 
quiet chat till his lordship should be ready to receive his 
visitor. 

And Mr. Eoyston set himself resolutely to work to be 
pleasant, telling the two younger ladies little anecdotes of 
their husbands, and proving himself to be an altogether 
delightful person. 

“I don’t remember ever meeting Arthur after his mar- 
riage,” he said; “he was very little in England, of course, 
which may account for it ; but I saw Mirfield only a week 
or two before his death. I was staying with a sister of 
mine at some absurdly small fishing-village on the Cornish 
coast, and Mirfield’s yacht put in for fresh water and pro- 
visions; and when I heard whose yacht it was I took the 
liberty of going out to her and bidding Mirfield good-day. 
A charming form of pleasure, yachting. Lady Mirfield; 
you lost much by not being a good sailor. I little thought 
then, when poor Mirfield put his hand down over the side. 


270 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


after I was in the dinghy, to give me a last grip, that it 
was to be my last sight of him. It must have been an aw- 
ful thing for Netley, losing the two of them so near to one 
another.” 

“It does not bear talking about even now,” Charlotte 
answered. “ It made an old man of him at a breath ! 
But for the comfort Molly and her boy brought into the 
house, I think the double blow would have been his death. 
Molly has played the part of family sunshine ever since 
she came to us, Mr. Eoyston. What we should all have 
done without her, during the first freshness of our trouble, 
I really can’t imagine.” 

“ You would have borne it just the same, my dear Char- 
lotte,” put in Mrs. Mirfield, with a disparaging glance in 
Molly’s direction ; but the remark fell flat, and Koyston’s 
next observation was a tacit attack on it. 

“ And Mrs. Arthur had her own trouble to bear, too, at 
the same time,” he said. “ But some women are born com- 
forters. I don’t know what some grief-burdened souls 
would do if it were not so.” 

AVhen Eoyston had been summoned to his old colleague’s 
presence, Clem Borthwicke tried to edge his way into the 
conversation, and, very much to his own surprise, found 
himself utterly at a loss. 

Lady Mirfield was courtesy itself, and listened to him 
with the politest of attention ; but although she listened 
she had nothing to say on the topics he introduced, and he 
found the task of supporting the conversation single- 
handed too much for him. He dropped the attempt after 
two or three failures of this kind, and transferred his at- 
tention to Molly ; but that little person was not in a re- 
sponsive mood, and, very much to his indignant disgust, 
he found the little “ south side ” burlesque artiste as difii- 
cult of approach as the “big swell.” 

He tried to feel amused at what he set down as her airs, 
but did not make much of a job of it. He might chuckle 
over her dignified little touch of reserve by-and-bye, and 
grin to himself at the prospect of taking her stuck-up pride 
down a peg or two, but while in her presence the thought 
did not give him the satisfaction it should have done; he 
was too keenly conscious of his own sense of discomfort. 


DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT, ETC. 271 

He would have dearly liked to “ take the starch out of 
her ” there and then, by telling her that he had been down 
to “ her old shop " once or twice lately, and asking her if 
she had any messages to send back to “ her old pals;” but he 
recognized the fact that the game was not worth the candle. 
He would give her no hint that might arouse her suspi- 
cions of the Nemesis coming upon her, so he bore his dis- 
comfort in silence, and hugged his resentment for a future 
occasion. 

Kbyston was upstairs the best part of an hour, and when 
he came down it was only to make his excuses to Mrs. 
Mirfield. 

Lord Netley had pressed him so warmly to stay over the 
night that he had given in. His bag was already packed, 
would Mrs. Mirfield direct that it should be handed over 

Lord Netley ’s servant when he called for it? 

' I suppose you will be going up this afternoon, accord- 
ing to our original plan, Mr. Borthwicke,” he said, when 
the other matter had been settled with his hostess. “ I 
should like to have a few minutes’ chat with you before 
we say good-day. Mrs. Mirfield will excuse us, I am sure. 
Will you walk down the drive with me?” 

His manner was agreeableness itself, as he made the re- 
quest, and his quietly amiable demeanor lasted until they 
were half-way between the house and the gates, well beyond 
sight and hearing. 

Then he stopped suddenly and faced his companion, 
barring his way, and cutting without the slightest cere- 
mony into the middle of what he was saying. 

“ Now, Mr. Borthwicke, I want to know, once for all, 
without any needless verbosity, what your object was in 
getting me down here?” 

The abruptness of the attack took Clem off his guard for 
the moment. He ejaculated a feeble “Eh?” and stood 
looking at his questioner in blank astonishment. But 
his assurance was too elastic in quality not to recover itself 
immediately. 

“ What do you mean?” he asked, as the other was going 
to speak again. “What’s up with you? What are you 
asking such a question as that for? You know what the 
mistake was that led me to ask you ” 


272 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“Drop that, please!” interrupted Eoyston. “I found 
out that lie for myself before I had been in your sister’s 
house half an hour ; only I did not choose to make a row 
under a lady’s roof. Don’t tell me any more damned 
nonsense about old wills and reversions ! Be good enough 
to say what was your little game in enticing me into Lord 
Netley’s house?” 

“Oh, now I see what you’re driving at!” cried Clem, 
giving his hat a more forward tip over his nose and stick- 
ing his hands in his pockets. “You didn’t like Mrs. 
Arthur Mirfield’s reception of you, and you’re trying to 
make me responsible for the unpleasantness.” 

“ I do hold you responsible,” answered the other, grow- 
ing mor^ frigid and stately as Clem began to swagger. “ I 
do hold you responsible, Mr. Borthwicke. It is very evi^ 
dent to me that you were aware of the effect my appearance 
would have upon the lady, and I should like to know why 
you dared to take such an unpardonable liberty with me 
as to make me the tool of your contemptible, underhanded 
little plans? Lord Netley has explained the situation to 
me, and I see the motive for your persecution of the young 
viscount’s mother, but I don’t see why you should draw 
me into your blackguardly attacks on a woman. I tell you 
plainly, Mr. Borthwicke, if I were ten years younger than 
I am — and I should not be a young man then — I would flog 
you till you could not stand for placing me in the position 
you did this morning.” 

He was white with suppressed rage, but he did not allow 
his anger to detract one iota from his dignity. 

Clem laughed, to hide his sense of his own littleness. 
There was nothing for it now but to bounce it out to the 
end. 

“ There was no mistake about her funk,” he said coarsely. 
“ I knew the sprained foot was all bunkum. You must 
know something pretty bad against her for the sight of 
you to bowl her over like that.” 

“ I know nothing whatever against Mrs. Arthur Mirfleld,” 
answered Eoyston, cooling down a little as the other’s crass 
vulgarity asserted itself — it was absurd to expect any touch 
of decent feeling from a person of this type — “ but don’t 
please run away with the notion that I am defending the 


DANGLING A PIECE OF MEAT, ETC. 273 

lady to you. If I had known Mrs. Mirfield as a thief, a 
forger, or even a murderess, I should not feel it incumbent 
on me to help forward your attack on her by denouncing 
her as such to the authorities. It is possible that, if I 
knew her to he any of these things, I should he neglecting 
my duty as a loyal subject in holding my tongue, hut in 
spite of that I should certainly remain silent. Nothing 
that she had done in the past could make it seem right to 
me to break up her present contentment, her present un- 
selfish womanly existence.” 

“ Claptrap !” muttered Clem, with an offensive curl of 
his lip. 

“ Of course it is, from your point of view,” Eoyston an- 
swered, with an air of indulgence which the other found 
exceedingly irritating. “ One does not expect gentlemen 
of your class to be able to understand anything so immeas- 
urably above their own code of morals as honest reparation 
or repentance. And that brings me back to my own griev- 
ance again,” he added, growing quieter and quieter as he 
went on. “ If you wanted a bogie man to frighten that 
sweet, adorable little woman with, why did you not choose 
a man of your own kidney for the task? A man who isn’t 
above bullying a defenceless woman, and one who doesn’t 
mind how foul are the means he uses to accomplish his 
dirty purpose. In short, a mean, sneaking cur of your 
own type? Oh, don’t shut your hands in that fashion. 
I can’t fight, but I can fence still, and I tell you candidly 
I should not think it a hit infra dig. to crack a hound’s 
crown with my stick if he showed his fangs at me.” 

And he looked very much as if he meant it, standing 
there straight and still and smiling, with his anger-lit 
eyes keenly watchful of the other’s every movement. 

“ I am sorry that I am too old to give you the thrashing 
you deserve,” he concluded, “but at any rate it is a satis' 
faction to have let you know my unbiassed opinion of you. 
I have the honor to wish you a very good morning, and a 
speedy journey back to your native haunts among the 
money-lenders and usurers, Mr. Clement Borthwicke.” 

He moved away with an elaborate bow, and walked off 
without a glance ^ter the retreating figure that was hur- 
rying along to the gates. He felt a righteous joy in hav- 
18 


274 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


ing said his say, but now that it was over his great anxiety 
was to remove all sign of anger before he got back to the 
house again, so he struck oif down a side path, and took a 
little stroll about the park on his own account, and in this 
way missed seeing Mrs. Mirfield again. But he contrived 
to reconcile himself to this circumstance, in spite of his 
usual courtesy in such matters. 

Mrs. George Mirfield had rather an uncomfortable time 
of it when she got back to luncheon that day. In all her 
experience of him she had never seen Clem in a such a 
flaming rage. He grumbled openly at the food, swore 
under his breath at the well-trained servants while they 
were in the room, and when they were gone poured out 
such a volley of blasphemy and abuse on everybody in gen- 
eral, and his sister in particular, that that fastidious lady 
sat at the other end of the table and shook in her skin. 

“ I am sorry now that I asked you to help me in the mat- 
ter/’ she said tearfully, when she at last got a chance to 
edge in a word. “ I would never have done it if I had 
known what I was bringing on myself. Let the whole bus- 
iness. drop — I will pay you what you think fair for the 
time you have spent on it, and let it end.” 

“No, by !” he cried, bringing his hand down on 

the table with a' thump which set the dainty porcelain 
dishes jingling, and made her nearly spring from her 
chair ; “ that is just what I won’t do ! I took the thing 
up because I saw a chance of making money out of it, but 
now I’d go on with it if there wasn’t a brass ha’penny be- 
hind it. I’ll show my condescending Lady Mirfield the 
sort of person she has been making a confidante of all this 
time; I’ll let the ex-penny-gaff actress know the kind of 
man she played the haughty aristocrat to; I’ll open Lord 
Netley’s eyes to the character of the troll he has petted 

and befooled for the past year; and I’ll show that old 

ramrod of a Koyston that we can bring our fascinating lit- 
tle bigamist to her bearings, in spite of all his highfalu- 
tin’ rot and rubbish. God! I could jump on him when I 
think of the things he said to me. And he knows all 
there is against that little impostor too — he almost con- 
fessed as much to my face — and defied me to get a word 
out of him. That was why she was so upset at the sight 


MRS. MIRFIELD TAKES AN INDEPENDENT STEP. 275 


of him. She thought he was going to show her up. Her 
foot was no more hurt than mine was. Think of it! To 
know he has got the information we want and not to he 
able to get it out of him! It’s like dangling a piece of 
meat before a hungry dog. Bad enough for the dog, but 
a cussedly dangerous game for the dangler, as he may find 
out to his cost. If it’s their turn to-day it may be mine 
to-morrow; and you may trust me, my dear madam, to 
keep the exact score against ’em all, and to have back 
every ha’penny, with full interest, for all they’ve taken 

out of me to-day. the whole lot of ’em, root and 

branch!” 

With which graceful peroration Mr. Borthwicke pushed 
his chair violently back from the table, and strode out 
through the back door into the neat garden. And for the 
next hour Mrs. Mirfield had the fearful satisfaction of 
watching him from behind the lace curtains of her sanc- 
tum, ramping up and down her lawn of velvet, hatching 
deep plans of revenge, and driving home his points now 
and again with vicious digs of his heel at the beautifully 
kept turf, as if, in his present unearthly mood, it was a 
positive need to him to feel that he was harming some- 
thing, even if it was only a few blades of unoffending 
grass. 


CHAPTEK XXII. ( 

MRS. MIRFIELD TAKES AN . INDEPENDENT STEP. 

Mr. Clement Borthwicke did not go back to town 
that day after all. He went down to the inn in the even-‘ 
ing and had a long chat with the landlord — much to his 
sister’s annoyance. She knew Clem’s free and easy man- 
ners with people of that class, and felt it derogatory to her 
dignity that her brother should be seen hobnobbing with 
honest old Dick Bedhead. But in Clem’s present temper 
she did not dare to offer a remonstrance; there was noth 
ing for it but to leave him to his own sweet will. 

So he interviewed the rustic boniface, and if he got very 


276 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


little reliable information from him concerning the mys- 
terious stranger who had gone to see his relations in Leeds, 
he made one discovery which promised to be of use in the 
future. 

The shabby, hard-drinking old gentleman had expressed 
his intention of returning before Christmas for another 
short stay in Cramlingford. Clem seized on this informa- 
tion with avidity. 

“I’ll give you twenty pounds if you get me down here 
in time to have a talk with him!” he said. “ I don’t want 
to do him a bit of harm ; I only want his evidence on a 
certain matter which I can’t establish without his help. 
If you’ll wire me the news of his arrival, and I get down 
in time to see him. I’ll pay you down twenty golden sov- 
ereigns with more pleasure than I ever paid money away 
in my life before.” 

And Mr. Eedhead promised to do his best to earn the 
money. 

Clem went to London the next day by the afternoon ex- 
press. He did the drive to York in Mr. Eedhead ’s tax- 
cart, and got to the station with twenty minutes to spare. 

As he stood on the pavement, fumbling in his pocket 
for a piece of silver of exactly the right size to give to the 
driver, he saw that honest worthy touch his cap, with a 
broad smile of recognition, to a gentleman who was pass- 
ing; and turning to look more particularly at him, he 
recognized the tall, dark-eyed man, with a shaven face, 
who had passed him at the gates of the Eedcross Asylum 
on Saturday morning. 

In an instant it flashed across him who it must be, and 
though, for his own after-satisfaction, he asked the ques- 
tion, he knew the answer beforehand. 

“ So that is Lord Netley’s secretary, is it?” he said, with 
an elaborate show of carelessness. “ Garth, do you call 
him? Abney Garth, eh? I suppose he’s almost as great 
a man as his lordship himself among the Cramlingford 
people?” 

“Well, they do say, sir,” answered the lad, in a broad 
Yorkshire dialect, lowering his voice cautiously as he 
uttered the treason, “ them as should know most about it 
do say as it’s Mr. Garth as writes the translations, an’ his 


MRS. MIRFIELD TAKES AN INDEPENDENT STEP. 277 

lordship as gits the praise. Our parson ses as Mr. Garth 
is powerful clever, an’ that he’s just keeping his light 
under a bushel to let himself be tied down to the old earl’s 
apron-strings as he is.” 

Mr. Borthwicke chuckled in an internal fashion peculiar 
to him. 

“ So it’s Mr. Garth as writes the translations, is it?” he 
said. “ Well, it strikes me Mr. Garth will have an oppor- 
tunity to get away from the earl’s apron-strings before he 
is much older ; and it may even happen that he will have 
the time and the opportunity to do a considerable amount 
of translations on his own account, and under such circum- 
stances, too, as will let all the world know that he did ’em 
without help from the old earl or any one else.” 

And he walked off to the booking-office, leaving the 
rustic Jehu very much exercised in his own mind as to the 
meaning of the mystic speech. 

Mr. Borthwicke had plenty of food for thought during 
his journey back to town. So Mr. Abney Garth was in 
the hunt after Mr. Philpott too ! It was a fair case of 
“Hunt the Thimble,” and the question had now resolved 
itself into a matter of chance. Whoever spotted the 
thimble — i.e. Philpott — first would cry checkmate to the 
other side — Garth, by putting him right out of the way, 
where nobody would have a chance of coming across him ; 
Clem, by producing him boldly at Ketley Fallow, and de- 
claring the relationship between him and Mrs. Arthur. 

Clem saw that, as things stood now. Garth had rather 
the better chance. 

When Philpott turned up again at Cramlingford, and 
opened communications with Molly, she would put Garth 
on to him, and the obnoxious husband would be got out 
of the way without loss of time. Clem’s only opportunity 
lay in the chance that Philpott might not make his pres- 
ence known to Mrs. Arthur immediately on his arrival. 
This would give Clem time to get down from London be- 
fore Garth knew the drunken reprobate was in the place. 
To further this chance, he wrote a short note to Redhead 
during the journey: “ When the man we were speaking of 
last night arrives at Cramlingford again,” he wrote, “if 
you can induce him to stay quietly out of sight at the inn 


278 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


until my arrival, I will double the twenty pounds I prom- 
ised you.” 

When Mrs. Mirfield saw her brother pass out of her 
gates, bag in hand, and knew she was rid. of him for the 
time being, she heaved a sigh of relief. What the visit had 
been to her she could not have described to anybody. With 
all her love for George, and her ambition to see him step 
into the shoes of the ailing old man up at the Fallow, 
when they should be vacated by their present wearer, she 
felt that nothing short of the prospect of immediately 
establishing George’s claim could reconcile her to a repeti- 
tion of Clem’s visit. Perhaps, of all she had gone through 
in the last two days, nothing was harder to bear than the 
consciousness that she had lost caste in the eyes of her ser- 
vants. She knew, too, how those admirable creatures dis- 
cussed the shortcomings of their betters among themselves, 
and, with her passion for effect and appearances, she 
shrank, with a shrinking that was almost agony, from the 
idea of Clem’s little peculiarities being so discussed. 

At the thought of another experience like that at the 
luncheon-table yesterday — open fault-finding with the 
dishes, muttered oaths at the servants, violent railing at 
herself — her flesh fairly crept on her bones, and she began 
to cast about for a means of avoiding it. 

What if she went straight up to Molly now — Abney 
Garth was expected back this afternoon ; she must go at 
once if at all — suppose she went boldly up to Mrs. Arthur, 
accused her to her face of all her enormities, and threat- 
ened to go at once to the earl and tell him everything un- 
less she undertook to leave the Fallow at once, throw up 
her boy’s claim, and keep out of the way until the earl’s 
death? 

It was such a desperate scheme that, when she had fairly 
put it into shape, it took her breath away, and yet, as she 
began to grow familiarized to the idea, it lost some of its 
impracticability, until at last she became enamored of it 
and started out to put it into action at once. 

Mrs. Molly Philpott might be too sharp for her at fenc- 
ing and word-play, but when it came to hard and fast ac- 
cusations she rather thought she could hold her own. 

And, as an untoward fate would have it, she caught 


MRS. MIRPIELD TAKES AN INDEPENDENT STEP. 279 

Molly, utterly defenceless and alone, in the large drawing- 
room at the Fallow. 

Charlotte was paying a round of calls, from which Molly 
had been absolved on account of her imaginary sprain. 

“ It won’t do you any good to spend the afternoon get- 
ting in and out of the carriage,” Charlotte had said when 
Molly proposed to accompany her. “ I know what you are. 
You are fond enough of coddling up other people, but you 
won’t take a bit of care of yourself. And, besides, you 
will like to have a chat with Abney when he arrives.” 

So she had stayed, feeling a veritable impostor. Lord 
Netley was too well occupied with Mr. Royston — who did 
not go up until the night train — to need her company, 
and so it happened that she was sitting alone by the fire in 
the big salon^ watching the dancing flames through the 
glass fire-screen, and looking slighter and more girlish 
than usual amid the magnificence of the big room, when 
Mrs. George Mirfield was shown in to her. 

The mellow autumn sunlight was streaming in at the 
five tall windows ; one patch fell across the little figure 
curled up in the large chair, burnishing her brown hair 
till it shone like gold seen through a veil ; and Mrs. Mir- 
field noticed, in spite of her mind being very full of other 
matters just then, that the small face had lost some of its 
roundness, that the outline of the cheek was sharper than 
it had been when she had left the Fallow in the summer. 

“Combined effects of fear and conscience,” she said to 
herself viciously, and went straight away at her victim, 
hoping to break down her defence by the suddenness of 
the onslaught. And the poor little woman, already de- 
moralized by the memory of what she had gone through 
yesterday, did for a time go down before it. 

“ I am glad you are alone,” began the elder woman, mov- 
ing the chair she had chosen quite close up to Molly’s, 
“ because if you had not been I should have had to ask you 
to grant me a private interview, and that would have cre- 
ated remark ; and in the present state of matters, for your 
sake, I would avoid that as long as possible. I have come 
to speak to you very candidly about your position here” — 
she was hurrying along as if she knew exactly the extent of 
her own courage, knew that she had no reserve fuel, that 


280 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


if she did not get over all her ground during her first burst, 
she would not he able to keep her speed up afterward — 
“ and to point out to you the advisability of getting out of 
it while you can do it with safety.” 

“With safety?” echoed Molly faintly, lifting her pretty, 
tired eyes wonder ingly to the other’s implacable gaze. 

But Mrs. Mirfield did not hear nor heed, in her anxiety 
to get out all she wanted to say before her spurious valor 
failed her. 

“ Things have come out about your life before you were 
known as Arthur Mirfield ’s wife ” — Molly made a terrified 
exclamation, and half rose from her chair and dropped 
back again — “ things which make it impossible for you to 
remain here much longer in any case. And I tell you 
frankly that, if you are still here when the final crash 
comes, I for one shall not be inclined to show you much 
mercy. If nobody else does it, I shall take steps against 
you for conspiracy and fraud, on my son’s account, not to 
speak of the heavier charge which may be brought against 
you by your husband.” 

Molly was past even exclaiming now ; she simply sat and 
listened, with quickened breath and parted lips. And, 
seeing her so stricken and prostrate, the assaulting party 
grew more daring and arrogant. 

“ I say nothing of that shameful, low-lived past of yours, 
because a delicate-minded person naturally shrinks from 
the discussion of such matters, and there will be quite 
enough talk about it when the facts of the case come to be 
publicly known, without any anticipation of the general 
outcry from me. What I have to do with is your present 
fraudulent conduct, your brazen assurance in coming here 
and trying to pass off that most unfortunate child of yours 
as Lord Netley’s heir, to the exclusion of my son. How a 
person with such a history as yours should dare to thrust 
herself into a nobleman’s family circle, and make herself 
at home there, as you have done, I cannot understand! 
It IS simply the most appalling piece of presumption I 
have met with in my experience. The insolent audacity 
of the whole proceeding quite takes my breath away!” 

And she paused, literally breathless, but whether with 


MRS. MIRFIELD TAKES AN INDEPENDENT STEP, 281 

horror at Molly’s iniquities or from the effects of her own 
declamatory efforts is a question admitting of argument. 

She paused, and Molly still waited, as if not -sure that 
she had finished all she wanted to say. The first look of 
downright terror on Molly’s face had gradually given place 
to something a little less distraught. Fear there was still, 
and very real fear, but there was less of absolute fright. 

“I am glad you have said this to me,” she said, when 
she saw that Mrs. Mirfield meant to allow her to speak, 
“ very glad indeed ! I have known for a long time past 
that you were my enemy, and I would rather have an open 
enemy than a secret one. Will you tell me exactly what 
you want me to do? Would it satisfy you if I consented 
to go away from here forever?” 

Mrs. Mirfield ’s black eyes sparkled with the anticipa- 
tion of coming triumph. To think that, after all their 
labor, the thing was to be so easily managed by a few di- 
rect accusations. 

“Yes,” she answered eagerly, “yes, I would be satisfied 
with that.” 

“I wonder,” said Molly, speaking scarcely above a 
whisper, and looking round the room with a glance that 
was full of unconscious pathos, “ I wonder if I could do it? 
I wonder how it would seem to be an outcast and a wan- 
derer again, without a secure resting-place for the sole of 
my foot, without home or name or a friend to care 
whether one was well or ill, wretched or happy? I wonder 
if I have the courage and the strength of will to vol- 
untarily brave such an existence after the peace and com- 
fort of this? I wonder can I do it?” 

“If you don’t do it voluntarily,” broke in the other 
woman harshly, “ you may be quite sure that, sooner or 
later, you will do it under compulsion.” 

“ It would be a wrench,” Molly went on, apparently un- 
conscious that any one had spoken ; “ it would be an awful 
wrench ; and yet I have always said to myself that I would 
do even that if it came to the trial, rather than give in. 
But it would be hard — oh, very hard ! To part with Artie 
now would be like plucking my heart itself out of its 


28 ^ 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


1 


“ But Artie would go with you, of course!’ interjected 
Mrs. Mirfield hurriedly. “ What would be the point of 
your going and leaving him behind? Artie must go 
too!’' 

“Ko, 1 can’t do that,” Molly answered, lifting her eyes 
again, with a new touch of courage, to the other’s face; 
“ I can’t do anything against my boy, Mrs. Mirfield. Why 
should you want him sent away? He has not shown any 
shameless audacity nor appalling presumption, and he has 
no low past to live down. What harm can an innocent lit- 
tle child of four years of age do you by remaining here 
with his grandfather? Think of the cruelty to the poor 
old man! I will give up my own position here for the 
sake of peace ; but the boy must stay as long as his grand- 
father wants him. There will be time enough to talk of 
his removal when the next Lord Netley takes possession of 
his own.” 

“ But I don’t think you are in a position to make your 
own terms, Mrs. Philpott.” Molly gave a little cry at the 
use of that name, and glanced afirightedly round the room. 
“ If you wish to avoid the odium of a public exposure you 
must accept the conditions offered to you. The child must 
go with you — on that point I am determined.” 

“ Then I’m afraid I shall have to refuse your conditions 
and risk the alternative,” Molly replied. She was desper- 
ately alarmed; she did not make any attempt to hide it, 
but in the matter of taking the boy away from Netley Fal- 
low she had evidently nailed her colors to the mast, and 
would go down fighting to the last gasp. “ Myself I am 
willing to sacrifice, but I can’t do anything that may tell 
against my little son in the time to come.” 

Mrs. Mirfield rose majestically, with a big rustle and rattle 
of silken skirts and bead ornaments, and Molly rose, too, not 
one whit defiant — a little touch of pleading rather in her 
air — but to the full as determined as her adversary. 

“Very well, then; there is of course nothing more for 
me to say. I have done my duty in warning you ; the rest 
remains with you.” 

“ Yes,” said Molly, very quietly, “ and it is likely to be a 
most disastrous rest; but that can’t be helped. I would 
do a great deal, a very great deal, to avoid this exposure, to 


MRS. MIRFIELD TAKES AN INDEPENDENT STEP. 283 

even put it off until Lord Netley is beyond the reach of all 
the scandal and gossip it will occasion, but I can’t stand 
in my boy’s light, Mrs. Mirfield.” 

“ But it must come about, sooner or later! When every- 
thing is known, the child must go. You don’t suppose 
Lord Netley will allow him to remain here when the whole 
truth comes out.” 

“ The whole truth 1” cried Molly, with a sudden warm 
flash in her eyes, and a sudden lifting of her little figure. 
It seemed for a moment as if she was going to hurl a ve- 
hement declaration at the haughty, overweening woman 
opposite her, but in the very accomplishment of the im- 
pulse she pulled herself up and turned away, and leaned 
her head down on her arm on the mantelpiece, and began 
to cry a little. “I beg your pardon,” she muttered 
brokenly. “ I am sorry I’m so silly, but I think I am a 
little tired, I have been so worried lately. I wish, Mrs. 
Mirfield,” she went on, speaking tremulously, in little dis- 
jointed sentences, “ oh, how I wish I could persuade you to 
drop your persecution of me and my boy, if only for a time 
— ui^fcil — until Lord Netley is not here to be distressed by 
it — by the esclandre ! You think I am only begging this 
favor for myself, but I am begging it quite as much for 
him — for that poor old man, who was so disappointed in 
his sons. Won’t you let him go down to his grave in peace? 
Won’t you leave me alone till he is gone? I don’t think 
you will have long to wait. If I could only explain things 
to you — but I dare not; it is not my secret alone. You 
will do a fearful amount of harm if you go on, but I don’t 
suppose any word of mine will hinder you. You must go 
your own cruel way to the end and ; then, and then, when 
you see the ruin and misery you have caused, you will per- 
haps feel a little compunction at the results of your handi- 
work.” 

“I’ll risk that!” she said, with a contemptuous laugh. 
“ I’ll risk it, in spite of all your tragic acting. You really 
do it very well, but you must think me a very silly woman 
if you imagine for a moment that I should allow your 
dramatic little display to stop my efforts on my son’s be- 
half — my efforts to secure the title and estates to their ” 

“You will fail in that!” cried Molly, lifting her head 


284 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


again ; “ mark my words, Mrs. Mirfield, you will fail in 
that ! There is an obstacle in the way ” 

“Which I will OYorcome,” interposed Mrs. Mirfield, cut- 
ting into the middle of the sentence impatiently, “ which 
I will overcome, if brains and money can do it. Good-day, 
Mrs. Philpott. Take my advice, and think over the mat- 
ter again when I am gone, and reconsider your decision. 
Good-day.” 

When she was left alone again, Molly flitted about from 
spot to spot in the room for some minutes, taking up 
things and setting them down again in an aimless fashion 
which told of absolute preoccupation. 

“Think over the matter again!” It was a quite need- 
less injunction; she was not likely to think much of any- 
thing else for some time to come. The threatened expo- 
sure stood ahead of her like a grim spectre, which refused 
to be shut out of her mental vision whatever else might 
share her meditations with it. 

She went out to the hall presently and spoke to one of 
the men waiting there, giving orders that Mr. Garth 
should be brought to her at once when he arrived, and 
then she returned to her purposeless perambulations among 
the furniture in the drawing-room. She thought once of 
sending to the nursery for the children, but decided against 
it directly ; in the present turmoil of her mind their chatter 
would irritate rather than soothe her. 

When the soft distant-toned clock on the bracket in the 
corner struck four she compelled herself to stillness for a 
minute or two, while the servants brought in the tea ; in 
her present dangerous position it behov^ her to make no 
false step on her own part. She would not even give Lord 
Netley’s head footman the chance of going downstairs and 
saying that she was agitated by Mrs. George Mirfield’s 
visit. 

She composed herself gracefully in a low chair near one 
of the windows, and sat gazing out at the beds of multi- 
colored chrysanthemums which were already beginning 
to brighten into blossom in the borders round the ladies’ 
lawn. 

When the men had been and gone, and left her silent 
and solitary again, she leaned forward and rested her ach- 


MRS. MIRFIELD TAKES AN INDEPENDENT STEP. 285 

ing forehead against the cool window-pane, and continued 
her meditations there ; and that was how Garth found her 
when he came in straight from his journey to her. 

In the midst of her own distress it struck her how young 
he had grown in these last few days. 

“ Charlotte went out on purpose,” she told him, in reply 
to his quick, eager look round the room. It was evident 
that this was to be no lukewarm courtship ; having once 
broken away from its silent bondage, his passion was bound 
to show itself in all its natural vehemence. “ She knew 
you were seeing after my business in town as well as your 
own, and she thought I should like a quiet half-hour’s 
chat with you ; so she absented herself, like the darling 
she is. I need not ask you how your own business has 
turned out, Abney; you look brimming over with good 
fortune.” 

“Yes, things have gone well with me,” he answered; 
“ but we can talk of that later on. What is wrong with 
you? Your nerves are all to pieces; I never saw you in 
such a state. What is it?” 

“The end is coming,” she said, with a small smile, 
“ that is all. I told you, when I went away in the summer, 
that my departure was the beginning of the end, and I 
was right. Mrs. Mirfield has been here this afternoon, 
and openly declared her knowledge of the Philpott busi- 
ness, and addressed me as ‘ Mrs. Philpott. ’ And yesterday 
she and her brother brought me face to face with a man 
who knows everything — a Mr. Eoyston, who stood by poor 
Arthur at the time of his marriage, and an old friend of 
grandpapa’s into the bargain. I was never so near faint- 
ing in my life, Abney — I don’t think I have once left off 
trembling since.” 

“ But what happened?” asked Garth eagerly. “ I am all 
at sea! You say Mrs. Mirfield called you Mrs. Philpott 
just now ! Then they could not have known what they 
were doing when they confronted you with this Eoyston.” 

“ I don’t think they knew all, but they must have known 
part, else why did they pounce him down on me like that? 
And he behaved well, Abney — beautifully I I was the only 
one who showed any agitation.” 

“ Do you mean that he kept his own counsel?’ 


286 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

“Yes; looked me calmly in the face and said he was 
glad to hear I had been prosperous and happy. Abney, it 
was awful ! I thought it was all out at last. I expected 
one or two sharp questions, and then I imagined how 
Charlotte would shrink away from me in loathing, and 
how Lord Netley would look at me as he listened to the 
story of my imposture. Oh, it was horrible!" 

“ Royston must be a good fellow." 

“ Yes; I think he was sorry for me". 

“I should think he was," said Garth, with a pitying 
look at her face. “ This has taken us a good deal by sur- 
prise. So Mrs. Mirfield has put a brother of hers on the 
job. Well, I must redouble my efforts to get hold of 
Philpott. I don’t think they can do any real positive 
harm without him. I traced him to a large pauper luna- 
tic asylum, and there I lost him. The doctor told me he 
was dying fast when he left there." 

“Dying! Oh, don’t tell me about it, Abney! It is so 
awful to wish any one dead, and it is so difficult not to 
wish him safely at rest, beyond doing further harm to him- 
self or any one else." 

“ Poor little woman," Abney said gently, but she put up 
her hands at that in sudden, swift repudiation of his sym- 
pathy. 

“You must not pity me!" she cried. “Whatever hap- 
pens, don’t pity me! I shall lose what little pluck is left 
to me if you do. I am reduced to such a state of cowardice 
that I would get out of the whole thing now, if I could 
see my way ; but if I were to try to put things straight so 
late in the day as this it would only hasten the catastrophe, 
and discovery now would kill the poor old man upstairs. 
He was very ill in the night, Abney. Parker has asked 
Mrs. Boston to arrange a bed for one of the men in one of 
the small back rooms in that corridor. He was so frightened 
that he won’t be left again without the means of commu- 
nicating with the rest of the house." 

“ His heart again, I suppose?" 

“Yes; Parker was holding him, and could not get to 
the bell. The interview with this Mr. Royston must have 
been too much for him. He is here still, Abney. Grand- 
papa pressed him to stay until your return, and he was 


MRS. MIRFIELD TAKES AN INDEPENDENT STEP. 287 

glad to do his old friend a little service. • You will see him 
at dinner; he goes back to town by the mail to-night.” 

“ You feel sure he is safe? Would it be any relief to you 
if I gave him a hint?” 

“ I am sure he is to be trusted,” she answered, “ and the 
less talking about it the better. No matter how guarded 
we may be, there is always danger in speaking of these 
things in a house full of people. I am getting so nervous 
under these constant attacks — first the letter, and now Mr. 
Eoyston’s appearance and Mrs. Mirfield’s open attack — 
that I can’t even meet a glance from the servants without 
fancying they are watching me.” 

“ It is very hard on you,” said Garth. 

“Yes, it is hard at times,” she admitted; “but I ought 
not to complain ; I never expected to find my life here a 
bed of roses. And even now I have not told you all, Ab- 
ney. Charlotte came in after church yesterday afternoon 
full of an unpleasant adventure she had had. A man had 
followed her into the park to beg. Who do you think he 
said he was?” 

“Philpott!” answered Garth, without an instant’s hesi- 
tation. 

“ No, not Philpott. He gave no name, but he said he 
had been steward on Lord Mirfield’s yacht.” 

“ I don’t believe it!” said Garth again. “It is not in 
the least likely. It is far more likely to be that poor 
wretch Philpott come down here on the chance of seeing 
you. Is he still here?” 

“No; he went to Leeds last night. Charlotte gave him 
ten pounds.” 

“That was a pity.” He thought for a moment. “I 
shall tell her you have told me this, and insist upon her 
placing the affair in my hands if he comes near her again. 
That will be the safest plan.” 


288 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


CHAPTEE XXIII. 

A SLIP ’TWIXT cup and LIP. 

Among the communications awaiting Mr. Borthwicke’s 
attention on his return to Gray’s Inn on Tuesday evening 
was a telegram from the good-natured actor Tom Des- 
mond, dated from the Greenwich Theatre, and consisting 
of only four words : 

“ News of Philpott. Come!” 

In his then state of mind — for Mr. Borthwicke had by 
no means recovered as yet from the moral trouncing he had 
received the previous day at the hands of Philip Royston, 
being one of those men who are not easily roused to a con- 
dition of active eruption, but, once roused, not easily sub- 
dued again — he regarded the arrival of this telegram at 
this particular crisis in the progress of affairs as a special 
interposition of Providence. It would have fretted and 
exasperated him to have been compelled to drop the hunt 
just now, while his blood was up, and he fairly jumped at 
the chance of going straight on with the affair at once. 

Philpott had evidently come back direct to town from 
Cramlingford, instead of paying that visit to Leeds of 
which he had spoken to old Redhead. As likely as not he 
had never meant to go to Leeds at all, had only mentioned 
it as a blind. 

Borthwicke wasted no time, however, over useless con- 
jecture. 

It was already after eight o’clock. He hurried away 
into Holborn to the restaurant he usually affected, got 
through a steak and chips as if he had made up his mind 
to accomplish a “ shortest on record” — it was never Clem’s 
“ way” to be nasty particular over the manner of his feed- 
ing as long as the matter was satisfactory — took a hansom 
across to Cannon Street Station, and at a quarter to ten 
was interviewing the dragon on duty at the stage door of 
the Greenwich Theatre. 

Close in money matters, as a rule, Clem was yet one of 
those far-seeing persons who know how to be generous at 


A SLIP ’TWIXT cup and LIP. 


289 


the right moment, and as there was a very stringent rule 
at the little suburban house against allowing loiterers be- 
hind the scenes, the interview resulted in the exchange of 
two good half-crowns, before the necessary messenger was 
forthcoming to convey Mr. Borthwicke’s card to Mr. Tom 
Desmond. 

But there the difficulty ended, for that good fellow came 
running down to the door, with the card in his hand, and 
carried his visitor olf toward the green-room, under the 
dragon’s very nose, without any further “by your leave,” 
whatever. 

“I’m very glad to see you,” he said, with his usual bo- 
hemian heartiness. “ You won’t mind waiting here ten 
minutes? I’m just going on. Haven’t got time to take 
you to my room, and the old manager here goes rabid at 
the sight of a stranger in the wings. I think Olaxton is 
inside, but I shan’t be long in any case. I expect the 
man you want down here to-night. All right, I’m here!” 
he sang out in reply to some distant call, and went plung- 
ing out of sight by a doorway, through which came a mel- 
low, full radiance of reflected light and the sound of voices 
raised in angry altercation, which betrayed its unreality 
by its artificially rounded periods. 

Claxton was not in- the green-room when Borthwicke got 
inside, but he was not sorry. He was glad to have a min- 
ute or two to himself. He had to confess that he was a 
little excited, and it was a relief not to have to force his 
thoughts away from the subject occupying his mind. 

Philpott was coming here to-night ! The chances were 
that to-morrow morning he and Philpott would be travel- 
ling toward York again, by the Great Northern express; 
that before the sun had accomplished another day’s work, 
the little adventuress at Netley Fallow would have been 
driven to full confession of all her scheming, and have left 
the shelter of that patrician residence forever. 

And it must be recorded to Mr. Borthwicke’s credit that, 
at the mental picture of that delicate little creature tramp- 
ing away from that splendid home, side by side with the 
drunken scoundrel who had blasted her whole life, a spasm 
of very real commiseration did seize upon him for a mo- 
ment. But it scarcely lasted longer. She knew what she 
19 


290 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

was risking when she took Arthur Mirfield’s love-child to 
Lord Netley, and passed him off as the lawful heir. By 
her own confession she had always been expecting this 
show-up. She knew it was nothing more than she de- 
served. It was pure maudlin sentiment to waste pity on a 
woman who had gone such lengths to secure her own ends. 
The whole affair from beginning to finish was just a fair, 
stand-up fight, with both sides acting on the defensive and 
offensive as opportunity offered, and in such a contest he 
would be a confounded fool indeed who missed a good open- 
ing because he was afraid of hurting his opponent. 

When Desmond rushed away in that frantic hurry and 
left him, he did not go very far into the room. He took 
to studying the bills which were watered against the wall 
just inside the door, and so kept his face that way, to 
watch for Desmond’s return. 

Two or three people were busy at the mirror on the op- 
posite side of the room, and he was conscious, without see- 
ing them, of the curious glances shot now and then in his 
direction. But he made no advances toward cordiality — 
just stood there with his back to the room, and his face 
lifted toward the strips of printed paper on the walls. 

As he waited, a man came down the passage in the di- 
rection he had himself come just now, and paused a mo- 
ment by the open door, to nod a good-evening at the actors 
inside. 

He was a big man, tall, with broad shoulders ; but one 
could only guess at his original height and width, for his 
once mighty shoulders were bent and rounded, and his 
once lofty head lowered by a stoop, which stunted and dis- 
guised his natural proportions. He had been a handsome 
man, too ; the arch of the nostril and the fine curve of the 
upper lip, and even some trace of the well-marked brows 
were still discernible, among the later additions of baggy 
eyelids and flaccid, pendulous cheeks, and the cold, dead 
purple complexion which marks the drunkard during his 
periods of compulsory abstinence. But perhaps there was 
nothing so mournful about the whole man as his hands. 
They did not shake, but they went on forever wandering 
about in an aimless, hopeless fashion, as if they had been 
doomed for all time to keep up a continual search for some- 


A SLIP ’tWIXT cup and LIP. 291 

thing they would never find. Sometimes they would both 
be at work on one button of his coat, turning it this way 
and that, searching anxiously all round behind it, and 
pressing it between thumb and finger as if there was a 
suspicion that something might be concealed in its thick- 
ness. Some times the nerveless fingers would travel up 
and down the threadbare front of the coat itself, stopping 
at the slightest irregularity in the cloth, plucking it out 
and going on again in their endless endeavor to satisfy a 
nameless want; or again, the wandering hands would dip 
into a pocket, search there for a second or two, and come 
out to resume once more their fingering of his cravat, or 
the edge of his sleeve, or the hair behind his ears. And 
in all the sad hopelessness of the man’s appearance noth- 
ing struck the beholder with such a keen sense of his lost 
condition as this aimless, incessant wandering of his poor, 
nerveless hands. 

He did not attempt to come into the room, hut stood a 
moment in the doorway, and smiled across at the man in 
front of the mirror, who was doing his best to persuade his 
mustache-ends to stick out in fierce horizontal points; and 
as he saw the smile Borthwicke said to himself that, in 
times gone by, this man had been one of those winning, 
brilliant fellows who make friends wherever they go, and 
have no enemy in the world but themselves. 

“Try a little honest yellow soap, Jimmy,” he said; 
“nothing stands the heat of the footlights so well. It 
holds out better than all the cosmetiques in the world.” 

“ Think so?” observed the gentleman at the glass. “I 
tried spirit gum last night, but it took such a confounded 
time to get out again. If I go on with the part, I shall 
shave and get a false one of the right shape.” 

“ Not you,” said the other; “ you think too much of your 
own. Try the honest yellow, my boy. I’ll answer for it 
you’ll never use anything else after one trial. Is Desmond 
in his room?” 

“No; just gone on. You can go there, though. I 
heard him tell the dresser to ask you to wait there if you 
came while he was on the stage.” 

“Thank you.” 

“ Poor old chap!” said the owner of the refractory mus- 


292 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


tache, as the other passed on out of sight, his finger search- 
ing for something along the bottom of his waistcoat as he 
went; “ he’s breaking up very fast now.” 

“ Who is he?” asked the man who had not spoken. 

“ Don’t you know him? It’s Dick Philpott; the orig- 
inal Mickey O’Shea in ‘A Broth of a Boy,’ in the prov- 
inces. I thought everybody knew Dick Philpott.” 

“Never saw him before. Heard of him often. Taken 
the shortest way home, hasn’t he? Looks as if he had one 
foot in the grave. Drink, I suppose?” 

“ Yes. He’d have been at the top of the tree if it hadn’t 
been for that chronic thirst of his. Such a pleasant fel- 
low, too. The best company I ever met.” 

“ It seems to me it always is the pleasant fellows who 
travel that road,” said the other pitifully; and then Des- 
mond came up, and bore Clem off to his dressing-room, 
and made him known to Philpott. 

“ Mr. Borthwicke says he can do you a good turn, Dick, 
old man,” he said; “and if you’ll just keep quiet tiU this 
change of mine is over — the changes alone are worth the 
salary in this piece, Mr. Borthwicke, I’m getting worn to 
a shadow — you can have the room to yourselves all through 
the last act, and have your chat in peace. There’s only 
one thing you mustn’t do, Mr. Borthwicke,” he added, 
with a frank, kindly smile at Philpott : “ you mustn’t offer 
this fellow any whiskey. He’s on the strict teetotal just now, 
and we’re all on our honor not to ask him to taste spirits.” 

“Doctor’s orders, you see, Mr. Borthwicke,” Philpott 
explained, as if he felt it necessary to account for such an 
extraordinary state of things. “ My health is not what it 
was; and it’s not much good placing yourself under a doc- 
tor’s hands if you don’t carry out his instructions. But 
the embargo will soon be removed now,” he added, setting 
his shoulders back for a moment, and looking as important 
as circumstances would allow of. “ I hope to be my own 
master in a week or two.” 

To a man of finer nature there would have been some- 
thing very pathetic in the sorry little attempt at dignity, 
in combination with those wandering hands, and that 
glimmer of a smile — which shimmered at you through the 
ruin of his face like a ghost of the “has been” — but 


A SLIP ’TWIXT cup and LIP. 


293 


Mr. Borthwicke had no inclination just then for psycho- 
logical researches. To him Philpott represented only 
one idea. lie was the tool by which George Mirfield’s 
right to the Netley succession was to he established, and 
Molly de Courcy’s graceful little head brought low ; and it 
was only so far as he might help or hinder the accomplish- 
ment of this purpose that he had any interest for the rest- 
less, hustling man of business. 

“ I have been up in Yorkshire for the last two days, Mr. 
Philpott,” he began, as soon as they were left alone, in an 
atmosphere heavy with the odors of grease-paints and 
powder, with a touch of tobacco smoke and toddy added ; 
“ and in a part of Yorkshire that you may know something 
of — the village of Cramlingford.” 

Philpott’s dull eyes fixed themselves on the questioner’s 
face as if he were trying to feel a polite interest in the 
inquiry. 

“ What village?” he asked, thrusting a feeble hand into 
the deep pocket of his shabby overcoat, and groping all 
round it before he brought it out empty again. “ I did 
not quite catch the name.” 

“ Cramlingford,” repeated Clem, very distinctly indeed. 
“ The village outside the gates of Netley Fallow. You 
know it well enough.” 

Philpott looked away; his eyes searched about among 
the numberless items of “ make-up” on Desmond’s dress- 
ing-place, as if seeking inspiration there. 

“ Cramlingford?” he repeated vaguely. 

“ Oh, come now,” said Clem half persuasively, but with 
a hectoring tone in his voice too, “ you know the place 
well enough, Mr. Philpott! I only missed meeting you 
there by a few hours. What’s the good of trying to make 
a mystery of your visit there? I know all about it, don’t 
you see you know, so we may as well start fair.” 

A dull red crept up to Philpott’s forehead, and there 
was very obvious reluctance in the slow lifting of his glance 
to Borthwicke’s face. 

“ Oh, well, if you know all about it, I’ve nothing more 
to say,” he said, with the air of one who yields a point 
unwillingly. “ As you say, what is the use^of making a 
mystery?” 


294 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“Quite so!” Mr. Borthwicke’s swarthy, lined face was 
broadening out with gratification. “ Quite so, Mr. Phil- 
pott ! Now, I’m going to make a further confession : I not 
only know of your visit to Cramlingford, but I know your 
object in going there.” 

“Yes?” 

“ Yes; you went to try to get a private interview with — 
how shall I call the lady? Suppose we say Mrs. Molly; 
there can be no offence that way — you went to try to get 
private speech with Mrs. Molly. And, what is more, you 
weren’t able to manage it. You were too timid about it. 
If I had seen you down there I would have contrived a 
meeting for you in no time ; and without bringing Molly 
into trouble either.” 

“Ah!” said Philpott, with a sudden increase of interest; 
“ I am with you there I I would starve in a gutter before 
I’d bring her into any further trouble.” 

“Of course! I knew that!” answered the other. He 
was planning his line of action as he went along. He saw 
how excessively cautious Philpott was. His only chance 
of bringing about the meeting between husband and wife 
lay in making Philpott believe that it was by her wish he 
was to be taken back to Cramlingford again. “ And she 
knows it, too.” 

“ Yes, I think she does. ” 

“ She does; she told me so herself.” 

At this magnificent lie Philpott’s hands stopped tneir 
wandering for a moment, and a look that was almost a 
doubt showed itself in his glance. 

“ Yes, she told me so herself,” repeated Clem impres- 
sively. “ ‘He would not come near me to harm me,’ she 
said; ‘but I should so like to see the poor fellow again!’ ” 

“ She — Molly — said that to you?” 

“ Yes, yesterday morning, as I stood talking with her in 
the big hall at Netley Fallow. And seeing how anxious 
she was about it, I promised her I would try to persuade 
you to come down with me when I returned, and then we 
could arrange a comfortable meeting. I should certainly 
go if I were you. It will mean twenty pounds in your 
pocket, and an fasily earned twenty pounds, too. You’d 
not be above taking it?” 


A SLIP 'TWIXT cup and LIP. 


295 


He laughed a short, shamed laugh. 

“ No,” he said; “ in my present position I should not be 
above taking twenty pounds from any one ; it would be 
such a help. It seems a lot of money to me now — twenty 
pounds. And you are sure that no harm could come to 
Molly from it?” 

“ Is it likely I should suggest it to you if it could?” re- 
turned the wily Clem. Nobody could accuse him of being 
a scrupulous man in matters of truth, and yet it is a fact 
that he felt he was playing a mean part in pitting himself 
against this poor creature, with the half-dimmed wits and 
helpless, wandering hands. But his compunction only 
affected him so far as to make him prefer an easy evasion 
of the truth to a downright lie. “ Is it likely I should 
suggest that you should do anything that would harm Mrs. 
Molly? You and I will go down to Cramlingford to-mor- 
row, have our chat with her on Thursday morning, and 
you shall come back when and how you like, with your 
twenty pounds in your pocket. Where are you staying 
just now?” 

At the sudden abrupt inquiry a look of such ’cuteness 
flashed into Philpott’s faded eyes that if Borthwicke had 
seen it he would have altered his entire plan of action on 
the instant ; but it was not to be. He was feeling in his 
pocket for his note-book, and so lost that warning-note of 
what was to come. 

“ You shall give me your address in case of mistakes,” 
he said ; ” and I will give you the directions in writing for 
our start to-morrow, so as to avoid the chance of a muddle 
as far as we can. Are you staying in this neighborhood?” 

“No,” Philpott answered; “I am staying at Thompson’s 
Buildings, St. John’s Street Eoad.” 

“ My part of the town. My rooms are at Gray’s Inn. 
What is your number?” 

“Fourteen.” 

Borthwicke wrote it down and read it aloud, to make 
sure there was no mistake. 

“ And now for my instructions for the morning,” he said. 

There was a keen air of satisfaction about him as he 
made his arrangements. Even as he wrote down the name 
of the station, and the hour at which the train started, he 


296 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


was hoping to himself that “ that poker-backed old Roy- 
ston” might still be at Netley Fallow when Philpott made 
his appearance there. He was glorying in the fact that he 
had been able to get hold of Philpott without Royston’s 
help, and it would sweeten his triumph over Molly de 
Courcy cent per cent if Royston should be present to wit- 
ness it. 

He was very impressive and careful in his instructions 
concerning the start. 

“ If you think there is any chance of your making a mis- 
take," he said, “ I will call for you myself, and take you 
down to the station." 

But Philpott would not hear of this. He would just 
jump into an omnibus at the Angel, he said, and ride 
down Pentonville; he knew every step of the neighbor- 
hood, had had a season at Sadler’s Wells before he gave up 
acting for good, and could not possibly make a mistake. 

And he was just as decided in his refusal to travel back 
with Mr. Borthwicke that night. Claxton was about the 
theatre somewhere; he was going up with him. 

At this second mention of Claxton ’s name Clem be- 
thought him that he did not care about a meeting with 
that gentleman in the present crisis of affairs. During the 
last interview with Desmond at the Camel and Howdah, he 
had shown rather an inclination to “watch the case" on 
behalf of Mrs. Molly, and a little interference of that kind 
just now might upset the whole thing again. 

If, for instance, he chose to point out to Philpott that 
his presence at Cramlingford was fraught with peril for 
Molly, there would be an end of the morrow’s expedition. 

“ Don’t say anything here about our journey into York- 
shire to-morrow," he said. “If Desmond wants to know 
what I wanted with you, just say you don’t know yet, but 
that you are coming to see me to-morrow; which will be 
true enough, don’t you see you know." . 

And with this gratuitous lesson in equivocation he took 
his departure, and got back as quickly as possible to Gray’s 
Inn, where he sat up until the small hours began to grow 
big, attending to the three days’ accumulation of corre- 
spondence which had awaited him on his return. 

As a natural consequence, but very much to his own vex- 


A SLIP ’TWIXT cup and LIP. 


297 


ation, he rather overslept himself in the morning, and 
only got down to King’s Cross five minutes before the de- 
parture of the train. 

He put a couple of sovereigns into a porter’s hand, and 
told him to get the tickets, and then hurried off to the 
platform, expecting to find Philpott in a state of nervous 
agitation over his non-appearance. He went the length of 
the train, his quick, crafty black eyes darting here and 
there among the groups of people round the open doors, 
and saw no sign of the man he wanted. Then he worked 
his way down the train again — this time going to each 
door and assuring himself that Philpott was not already 
seated — but with no better success. 

The written instructions had directed him to remain 
under the clock on the departure platform until Borth- 
wicke came to him. Once certain that he was not already 
here, Clem took up his position at the appointed spot, and 
watched and waited for his appearance with the best pa- 
tience he could, till the guard came hurrying down the train 
with his signal flag unfurled in his hand. 

He gave up then, and went and stood at the outside door 
for five, ten, fifteen minutes, but no Philpott came. 

After that he walked out to the road and watched a 
score or so of Angel omnibuses pass, thinking it possible 
that Philpott had miscalculated his time, and would still 
turn up. 

But even this exciting occupation palled upon him after 
a time, and he took a sudden resolution to go up to Thomp- 
son’s Buildings and find out for himself the cause of the 
delay. 

And he went; and after an infinity of trouble found 
number fourteen, only to meet with an astounding rebuff. 

Mr. and Mrs. Philpott had left their lodgings that morn- 
ing quite early. 

They had only taken the rooms for a week, the landlady 
told him; they had come to her last Wednesday, and so, 
of course, their time was up to-day. Ko, she had not the 
faintest idea where they had gone to ; and, yes, she had 
thought they seemed in a desperate hurry over the “ clear- 
out.” Mrs. Philpott had sat up till three o’clock this 
morning packing, and that, too, after saying she should 


298 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


not touch her boxes until to-day. What sort of a person 
was Mrs. Philpott? Oh, there was nothing very particular 
about her. She looked like a woman who had had her 
share of trouble, as well she might, with such a wreck of 
a husband. Young? Well, it wouldn’t be easy to guess 
her age. She might be over thirty or not, somewhere 
thereabouts. 

If Mrs. George Mirfield could have taken a peep at her 
brother after he had regained the shelter of his own rooms 
that morning, she would have blessed her lucky stars that 
this further frustration of their hopes had not occurred 
while he was under her roof. 

He was not a pleasant object to look at as he paced his 
untidy, grimy sitting-room, kicking out viciously at any- 
thing that came in his way, with all sorts of unholy threats 
and oaths bursting now and again from his lips, as if his 
rage was such that there was not room in him to contain 
it, like a pot on the boil that has been filled too full. 

In his present mood, his greatest annoyance was that 
there was not the smallest blame to be attached to anybody 
but himself for this aggravating slip ’twixt cup and lip. 
If he could have taken it out of somebody else it would 
have been a huge solace to him ; but it had been caused by 
nothing but his own blethering idiocy — which was his own 
graceful way of expressing it — in allowing that broken-down 
old drunkard to go out of his sight after once finding him, 
until he had made all the use he wanted of him. 

And beyond the disappointment in his immediate plans 
there were other matters fretting and perplexing him. 
Who, for instance, was this Mrs. Philpott, w^ho had sud- 
denly sprung into existence, from the Lord only knew 
where? Was she the problematical first wife, who had 
chosen, this time of all others, to put in an appearance? 

As this idea occurred to him he began to rail at himself 
for not having touched on the question of that hypotheti- 
cal earlier marriage last night. He had not even taken 
the trouble to get the cunning old imbecile’s real name 
from him ; if he had, he might have obtained the evidence 
of the marriage with Molly de Courcy for himself. But 
he had been so fascinated with the notion of hurling a 
social bombshell into the midst of the people who had made 


A SLIP ’TWIXT cup and LIP. 


299 


him feel his inferiority, that he had lost sight of the other 
and less sensational mode of gaining his end. He cursed 
his own stupidity, now that it was too late, in allowing 
personal feeling to blind him to the fulness of his oppor- 
tunity. 

Then there was another thing' puzzling him. Why had 
this old fool thrown up the chance of making twenty 
pounds (unless, indeed, somebody had put him on his 
guard against harming Molly) ? Even supposing this lady 
who had turned up so inopportunely was really the first 
wife, it was not easy to understand why she should put 
herself out of the way to prevent Philpott earning what, to 
them, must certainly appear a considerable sum. Nobody 
but people in needy circumstances would reside in such a 
place as Thompson’s Buildings, and to people in needy 
circumstances twenty pounds would mean a period of abso- 
lute affluence. What could have been their motive in 
throwing away such a chance? 

And even as he put the question to himself, the answer 
came — Mr. Abney Garth! 

Yes; that was it! There was not a doubt of it! Garth 
or his agent — it was the same thing in effect — had got at 
these Philpotts, and persuaded them to keep dark. What 
Garth’s motive could be in championing Molly de Courcy’s 
cause like this, it was impossible to make the wildest guess 
at, but the fact that he did so champion it was none the 
less apparent for that. 

It was like walking down a country lane on a dark night, 
and hearing footsteps at your side. You know quite well 
that your invisible neighbor is going in the same direction 
as yourself, and that is all you know, either of him or his 
intentions, unless he choose to enlighten you. 

Of course Borthwicke went down to the little theatre at 
Greenwich again that evening. It was his last chance for 
the present, and he would not neglect it, though at the 
same time he did not expect much good to result from it, 
and in this respect he was not ‘disappointed. 

He caught Desmond after the second act, in the middle 
of his change for the prison scene — Clem was getting 
quite well posted in the numerous vicissitudes undergone 
by the hapless hero in “ The Madman’s Legacy,” and their 


300 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


effect upon his personal appearance — and went to his point 
at once. 

“ Philpott had an appointment with me to-day, and did 
not keep it,” he said; “I came down to see if you could 
give me his address.” 

“And that is just what I can’t do,” Desmond answered. 
“ There is something more wrong than usual with the poor 
old chap’s affairs, I’m afraid. He went away from here 
last night more cheerful than I’ve seen him for a long 
time, and I set it down to his chat with you ; but when I 
came down to-night I found a letter from him waiting for 
me here, asking me not to think it queer if he doesn’t 
show up again yet awhile, as he has got himself into a 
muddle, and is obliged to lie close for a time. ” 

“ I suppose you can’t form an idea as to the nature of 
the muddle?” inquired Clem. 

“ Not the faintest ! The only thing I can think of is 
debt ; but who in the world would be fool enough to try to 
squeeze a debt out of poor Dick? It would be throwing 
good money after bad with a vengeance.” 

“Bather!” said Clem impressively; and thought busily 
for a few seconds, and then began again: “ Mr. Desmond, 
do you know anything of Philpott’s domestic arrangements 
— his present arrangements, I mean?” 

For the briefest of seconds Desmond took his eyes off his 
reflection in the glass, to flash an inquiring glance at his 
questioner. 

“ Domestic arrangements?” he echoed. “ I did not know 
he had any. He only came out of the asylum ten days 
ago, you know.” 

“ Well, I found out this morning that there is a Mrs. 
Philpott in the case.” 

“What! another of ’em!” cried Desmond, with a touch 
of scandalized amusement. “ What an old rascal it is.” 

“Then you had not heard anything about it? I was 
wondering if it was that first wife of his come back to life 
again.” 

“No; I never heard him say a word on the subject. 
Now you speak of it, I do remember noticing that he 
looked a little better cared for than he had done for some 
time before he went into the asylum — his heels well set 


A SLIP ’TWIXT cup and LIP. 


301 


up, and no buttons missing on his waistcoat, and so on — 
but if I tried to account for it at all I put it down to a 
more than usually charitable landlady. Dick always had 
a way of winning his landladies’ hearts in the»old days, I 
remember.” 

Clearly no information to be gained here, thought Clem 
to himself, raging inwardly with mortification as he said 
good-night to the busy actor, and found his way out of the 
theatre again. He was feeling considerably smaller than 
he had felt for a very long time indeed. He had built 
his hopes so high upon this meeting with Philpott, he 
had made so sure of bringing about a crisis of some sort 
when once he should be in personal communication with 
this man, and lo ! he had had his spell of personal com- 
munication, it was over and done with, and he was not one 
whit nearer his object than he had been before. Little 
Molly de Courcy was as secure in her position at Netley 
Fallow as she had ever been, and George’s chance of the 
succession had not improved by one shade for all the anx- 
iety and annoyance and time that had been wasted over 
the affair. 

But for the innate doggedness of his disposition this re- 
buff would have induced him to wash his hands of the bus- 
iness for good. As it was, he only consented to drop it for 
a time. He was “ bested he confessed it candidly ; but 
it only needed the smallest scrap of encouragement, the 
smallest shred of new information, to set him off again as 
rabid as ever.- 

And when he consented thus to drop the running for a 
time, it was beyond his wildest dreams to imagine in what 
an entirely different direction he would travel when he 
took it up again. At this period his only chance seemed 
to lie in catching Philpott when he should return to Cram- 
lingford, according to his arrangement with Bedhead. 


302 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


CHAPTEK XXIV. 

THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRAUGHT. 

A BLESSED period of rest had fallen on Netley Fallow 
again. Molly snatched at the breathing-time as a drown- 
ing man snatches at a floating spar ; knowing well that he 
must drown ultimately, and is only lengthening out his 
torment, he yet has not the stoicism to let the means of a 
temporary breathing-space go past him. 

A clear fortnight had passed since Mr. Royston had left 
Netley Fallow, and taken with him that atmosphere of 
doom which had encircled Molly for a time ; from the ar- 
rival of the anonymous letter containing the information 
about Philpott, until Mrs. George Mirfield’s open attack 
on the afternoon of Abney Garth’s return from London. 
It had been a fortnight of perfect calm and quietness. 

Garth had had his interviews with Mr. Kennett and 
Lord Netley concerning his intentions toward Charlotte, 
and what opposition had been offered had faded away be- 
fore his quiet determination, and Charlotte’s smiling asser- 
tion that she meant to have her own way. The wedding 
had been flxed for the New Year, and Charlotte was begin- 
ning already to take a renewed interest in the fashion 
plates. 

Molly supported her as loyally in this as she had in every 
other emergency, great or small, since the first day of her 
arrival at the Fallow. Still, it was inevitable that, under 
the new condition of things, Charlotte should not need so 
much of her society as formerly ; and in particular Molly 
got into the habit of vacating the octagon room — where 
tea was usually served now that the weather was getting 
more chilly — toward the dusk of the afternoon ; only turn- 
ing up, a few minutes before the dressing-bell rang, to 
drink a cup of lukewarm tea as she stood with her feet on 
the fender-stool, awaiting the signal for departure to her 
dressing-room. And these dusky hours, which Garth and 
Charlotte spent in a delightful solitude d deux^ Molly spent 


THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRAUGHT. 303 


in quiet wanderings round and about the gardens and shrub- 
beries near the house. 

It was perhaps not astonishing that she should look for- 
ward to these quiet hours in the sombre twilight as a kind 
of landing-place in the ladder of her daily life — -a space 
where she could plant her feet and rest a little from the 
eternal struggle of keeping up appearances. 

It is true that she thought a great deal, during these 
quiet hours, of the dijdiculties surrounding the position 
into which her own recklessness and her desire for her 
boy’s welfare had brought her ; but it was inevitable that 
she should also think a great deal of the man who had 
treated her with such unparalleled generosity. And the 
twilight encouraged these memories. 

As the shades deepened among the shrubs and trees of 
the stately Fallow gardens, she recalled that other night, 
when she had stood in the fading daylight on the edge of 
the cliff at Leuville, saying good-by to the man who had 
not a shred of reputation or character left in the eyes of 
the world — the man who had dropped his claim to an earl- 
dom and thirty thousand a year because he would not harm 
the woman he loved. 

She remembered how the moon had come up behind the 
little house while they stood there, twinkling at them 
through the quivering needles of the pines, showing each 
the strained white face of the other, when it would have 
been so much better that they should have been kept hid- 
den. There were no pines here, on the ladies’ lawn at 
Netley; but there were elms and beeches, and the moon 
was peeping at her through the fast-thinning branches, with 
very much the same calm indifference for all things mun- 
dane as she had shown on that other night a month ago. 
The smooth green of the turf — sprinkled with the leaves 
which had fallen since the morning’s sweeping — was 
dotted here and there with rose-edged patches of light, 
which flitted here and there as the breeze swayed the 
boughs on the trees overhead. Molly left the lawn pres- 
ently, and began pacing to and fro in the shadow thrown 
by the house, along the walk under the drawing-room win- 
dows. From here she watched the patches of light move 
and go in and out, as the branches above interlaced and 


304 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


separated again, letting the moonlight through in flashes 
of radiance, and then shutting them out with the bewil- 
dering rapidity of a kaleidoscopic change. She was telling 
herself that she should never appreciate the beauty of 
moonlight again, because of the pained memory it would 
bring with it ; because she would never be able to dissoci- 
ate it from the recollection of George Mirfield’s hungry 
look of longing, from the remembrance of his figure stand- 
ing on the edge of the cliff gazing seaward, after she had 
prayed him to spare her. 

And then, all in an instant, she began to tremble vio- 
lently, and to tell herself that she was the victim of a 
ghastly hallucination ; for as the breeze bent the topmost 
branches for a moment, and left a patch of brightness on 
one of the far corners of the lawn, she saw the very embod- 
iment of her thoughts — saw George Mirfield’s face and fig- 
ure, broad-shouldered out of all proportion to its height, 
with the long arms hanging straight down from the 
shoulders, just as she had seen it in the moonlight on the 
Leuville cliff. 

The apparition lasted but a moment before the branches 
sprang back to their natural height, and plunged the spot 
into dense shadow again; and then Molly, crouching in 
deadliest fear in a corner of one of the window recesses, 
began to call herself severely to order. 

She had not really seen anything; or, if she had, it was 
one of the gardeners searching for a lost spade or some 
such thing, whom her fervid imagination had transformed 
on the spot into a likeness of the person in her thoughts. 

She was so angry with herself for what she called her 
“attack of the supernatural,” that nothing less than in- 
stant investigation would satisfy her. Straightening her 
shaking limbs, she marched in a direct line for the spot 
where she had seen the awesome thing. 

“ Who is it there?” she called out as she advanced; “ and 
what are you doing here so late as this? If you don’t in- 
stantly answer me I will loose the dogs.” 

Thus challenged, a figure moved quickly forward into 
the light and stood awaiting her. 

Molly stopped, and her hands clutched each other across 
her breast. 


THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRACJGHT. 305 

“George!” she whispered, with a sobbing catch in her 
breath. “ Is it you, really?” 

“It is I, really, Molly.” 

“ I thought — I was afraid — you frightened me dread- 
fully, George.” 

“ I am sorry. If I had thought to find you wandering 
about in the damp at this time of night, I would have 
kept away.” 

“ Come nearer ; let me touch you; let me convince my- 
self that you really are fiesh and blood, and not a mere 
imagining.” 

He came forward and gave her his hand. 

“That is good,” she said, smiling a little wistfully at 
him, as if she found something wanting in his greeting. 
“ It is your very own hand-clasp, George ; I know of none 
other like it. What were you doing there in the corner?” 

“ Must I really tell you?” he asked. “ I think it would 
be better not to ask me. I was just taking a look at the 
old place.” 

“But it was such a strange way to take a look at it!” 
She was still breathing quickly, in spite of her desire to 
imitate his quietness. “From a dark corner like that! 
Why didn’t you come in at the front door?” 

“Well, I wanted particularly to see this side of the 
house, and — to speak the honest truth, I did not wish any 
one to see me about the place, so I came into the park 
from the other side, and climbed the ha-ha into the gar- 
den.” 

“ Oh !” There was something in the resolute self -repres- 
sion of his bearing which had a curiously quieting effect 
upon her. Standing there in the moonlight, with him at 
her side, so calmly conventional in speech and manner, 
she almost felt as if the memory of that passionate farewell 
in the Leuville garden was a mere trick of imagination, as 
if it had never taken place in reality. 

“My intention,” he went on, looking quietly down at 
her upturned face, “my settled intention was to come 
down and spend a quiet evening with my mother, and get 
away again in the morning before anybody had heard of 
my arrival. And then, as I walked up the hill from Little 
Croxmore, I saw that row of windows ” — pointing to the 
20 


306 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


lamp-lit windows of the west wing — “ shining at me across 
the park. I thought that most likely you and Charlotte 
would be up there dressing for dinner, and a ridiculous 
fancy took me to come and have a closer look at the old 
place.” 

Molly thought she understood now. 

“ And so I came, and gave you a good fright, and was 
threatened with the dogs for my pains. You see, I never 
expected to find anybody prowling about the place at this 
time of night.” 

It came into Molly’s head to tell him about Charlotte 
and Abney, but she did not do it. There was something 
about this unpremeditated meeting, some feeling that it 
belonged to their two selves exclusively, which made her 
shrink from introducing any ordinary topic of conversa- 
tion ; she did not know why, she only knew that it was so. 
The quiet decorum of his manner only intensified this feel- 
ing. She knew, to the innermost core of her being, that 
he was maintaining this show of calmness by a supreme 
effort, and, without reasoning it out, she felt that there 
must be some all-powerful motive for this supernal self- 
control. 

“ I am glad you altered your mind and came,” she said. 
“ I am glad I have seen you. It would hurt me to have 
found out afterward that you had been here without my 
seing you. I always think of you as the greatest and most 
generous friend a woman ever had. To know you had 
been so near, without even a hand-shake passing between 
us, would have been a real trouble to me.” 

“In that case I am glad you caught me,” he answered 
her. “ I would not willingly cause you a moment’s anx- 
iety or pain of any kind, as I think you know.” 

“ I think I do,” she responded quaintly; and then they 
stood quiet for a little, both conscious of a desire to break 
through this barrier of restraint, and equally conscious 
that their only safety lay in maintaining an outward show 
of reserve. 

“ Did you come down to see your mother with any special 
purpose?” asked Molly presently. “ She is not ill, I hope; 
but we should have heard if she had been.” 


THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRAUGHT. 307 

“ No, she is not ill. I came down to say ‘good-by.’ ” 

“Good-by? You are going away — somewhere a great 
distance off?” 

“ It is just possible I may. Paris has palled on me a 
little since my return from — just lately, I should say. It 
is never a very cheerful place in the autumn, you see, and 
so I thought I would take a little trip farther a-field, to 
Egypt or India, or even Australia. I have not made up 
my mind where it is to be yet.” 

She steadied herself carefully before she spoke again. 

“It is through me you are doing this,” she said. “It 
is because you find Paris unendurable without the excite- 
ment of the playing.” 

“ Well, even so, 1 don’t see why you should speak of it 
in that self- accusing fashion,” he returned, with a quiet 
touch of protest. “ You speak as if you felt you had done 
me a great harm, instead of the best turn that has ever 
been done me in my life. I shall put the craving for ex- 
citement that is in me to some better purpose now. Per- 
haps I shall have a turn at the gold fields, or perhaps I 
shall put all my restless energy into boundary-riding on the 
Australian sheep-runs. Any change must be for the better, 
Molly.” 

The name slipped out unwittingly, but she scarcely 
heard it ; she was too much occupied with more important 
matters. 

“ Still, I can’t forget that it is through me you are going 
away,” she repeated sorrowfully. “If your mother could 
know, she ” 

“ But she never must know,” he cried, breaking into her 
sentence with sudden uneasiness. “ She must never know 
— anything at all of — that time, Molly. You have not 
said anything?” 

She shook her head. 

She thinks we were the merest acquaintances.” 

“That is right,” he answered, with obvious relief. 
“ She must not suspect how things are with me. She 
might doubt me and my investigations at Leuville, and 
that might lead her to send somebody else over the ground 
again. You understand?” 


308 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Yes, she quite understood ; there was no doubt about 
that. She only caught her hands together and drew a 
quick breath, but it was answer enough. 

“ You have been well since you left Leuville?” he asked, 
getting away from the other subject with as much haste as 
he could. “And Charlotte’s little one — has she quite got 
over her illness?” 

Molly answered something, she did not know what, and 
then he put out his hand and she laid hers in it, wonder- 
ing if he would feel how it shook, and take a little pity on 
her at the last moment. Surely, surely he would not part 
from her like this ! 

But he did. He closed his fingers over hers in a warm, 
friendly pressure, and let them drop again. 

“Good-by,” he said. “Give Artie Mr. Smith’s re- 
spects, and By-the-bye, there is that daub I did; 

would you like to have it?” 

“ I should treasure it above everything.” 

“ Very well, I will send it to you. Don’t tell anybody 
the name of the artist — I am not proud of my i^ork — and 
I should be glad if you kept quiet about having seen me 
to-night. I should like, if possible, to get away again 
without any fuss at all. ” 

Of course she undertook to do as he wished, and he 
walked off toward the narrow shrubbery path, calling back 
in a low, laughing voice as he went to tell her that the 
chances were he should be collared by the keepers before 
he got out of the park again. 

She waited there on the edge of the lawn, listening to 
the gravels crunching under his tread. She could not be- 
lieve he had gone like that; he would turn back, just for 
a moment, to put his arms round her, to whisper one short 
“God bless and keep you, my darling!” He must know 
how her heart hungered for one little sign of affection. 
Surely he would give her a chance of saying that she 
would be true to him till her dying breath ! 

But that was just what he had made up his mind not to 
do ; and his steady footsteps trailed off into the distance 
without a falter or pause, until they became inaudible to 
the listener on the ladies’ lawn, strain her ears as she 
would. She still stood there, long after the sounds had 


THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRAUGHT. 309 

been swallowed up by the silence of the night ; stood there 
immovable and rigid, held close in the clasp of a pain 
which lay too deep for such frivolous relief as tears could 
bring. The dressing-bell rousd her at last, and she shud- 
dered as she turned to go back to the house. Just for the 
time being she was in open rebellion against fate. Eather 
a thousand deaths than the lengthening out of this weary 
struggle with destiny. If George had come back to her 
then she would have cried out what was in h^r heart : 

“ Take me with you ! I crave for nothing in comparison 
with the agony of this separation. Let the world condemn 
as it will, I will endure all for the sake of my love!” 

But he did not come back ; he had more mercy for her 
than she had for herself. It is well that these impulses of 
self-renunciation come so often after the opportunity for 
carrying them out is past. It is God’s goodness which 
ordains that it shall be so, else who should stand against 
such a strain on the heart-strings as this of Molly’s? 

As she was crossing the hall to the staircase she met 
Charlotte; Charlotte, brilliant and expansive in mood, 
fresh from her long tete-a-Ute with her lover. 

“ Why, Molly child, how nipped up you look!” she cried, 
putting an arm round the smaller woman’s shoulders, with 
a delightful touch of comfort and protection. “ My dear 
girl, why will you absent yourself like this day after day, 
and go wandering about in the lonely twilight like some 
spirit from the regions of the unquiet dead? You are as 
cold as a stone. Why do you go out like this, Molly? 
You can’t imagine that I or Abney would think you de 
trop ! After all your sweetness and goodness to me, do you 
think I want to toss you on one side the moment I’ve got 
a sweetheart to talk to? I shall get quite offended with 
you, my dear, if you hold yourself aloof from us so per- 
sistently.” 

But Molly shook her head and smiled — though her lips 
felt stiff at the task while her heart was so full of misery. 

“Speak for yourself, my dear Lotte,” she said gently. 
“ Think of the arrears of love-making that Abney has to 
make up. Let him have some sort of chance to put a lit- 
tle of the stored-up tenderness of all these years into words 
at last.” 


310 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Charlotte laughed, and even looked a trifle conscious, as 
she ran ofl up the stairs. She was finding out at last what 
sort of thing a man’s love was, and often asked herself, 
wonderingly, how she could have endured poor dead and 
gone Lionel’s colorless make-believe. 

George Mirfield had thoroughly understood the kind of 
task he was setting himself when he decided on this visit 
to his mother. He knew quite well the sort of cross-exam- 
ination he would have to go through at her hands concern- 
ing his Leuville experiences, and he flattered himself that 
he had learned his lesson so correctly that it would be im- 
possible to trip him up, or convict him of the slightest 
misstatement on the matter. 

And yet, after he had safely passed through his ordeal, 
and his mother in turn began to enlighten him on the sub- 
ject of her discoveries, as he listened to the story of the 
Philpott marriage, he did, in his great surprise, nearly lose 
his presence of mind. 

His first thought, when he heard that this Philpott was 
still alive, was one of elucidation. He understood now 
why Molly had been so eihphatic in her refusal of him. 

His mother having once started the subject, he did not 
allow her to drop it until he had wrung from her every 
iota of information she possessed upon it ; and in this way 
he got at the fact — which she in her spite would have 
rather suppressed — that Molly had not believed herself to 
be Philpott ’s lawful wife when she married Arthur Mir- 
tield. This gave him the opening he wanted, and he took 
instant advantage of it. 

“ For the little woman, personally, I have no feeling, 
one way or the other,” he said ; “ she seems to have put her 
foot in it with you somehow, but I expect that is princi- 
pally because she is the mother of my rival for the Netley 
stakes. Now, between you and me, mother, I’m of the 
opinion that she has been treated disgracefully all the way 
through, and I don’t feel a bit inclined to join my howl to 
the hue and cry of running her down.” 

Mrs. Mirfield left ofi fanning herself — she was near the 
fire, and she had got a little warm over the excitement of 
discussing Molly’s enormities — she shut her fan up with a 
click, and opened her black eyes very wide indeed. 


THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRAUGHT. 311 


“What do you mean by that, George 

“Now, don’t look at me like that, old lady!” he cried, 
with an air of mock alarm, drawing his chair nearer hers 
as he spoke, so that he could lean his elbow on the arm of 
it, and so bring his face close. “ This is the last evening 
you and I will spend together for our Heavenly Father 
alone knows how long, so we won’t spoil it by any argu- 
ments. I only wanted you to try and see for yourself how 
hard it was on this poor little soul, that she should be 
hounded down, after all these years, for a thing that was 
never a fault of her own. If we could get at this Philpott 
now, there would be a certain amount of satisfaction to be 
got out of pommelling him till he hadn’t got a feature left 
to bless himself with, but the young woman deserves noth- 
ing but pity for her share in the business.” 

“Let us keep to the point, George, if you please,” 
remonstrated his mother, still maintaining her upright 
position, and keeping her glance on his face. “ Am I to 
understand that it is you wish that I should drop these 
investigations? Do you mean to say that you would 
rather resign your lawful right to the succession to Netley, 
than bring about this young woman’s exposure?” 

George saw the danger of such a declaration as that, and 
drew back just in time. 

“ No, no ; I won’t go so far as that,” he answered lightly, 
“ but I think perhaps this affair can be managed without 
what you call ‘an exposure’ at all. It seems to me, that 
you and my uncle are carrying this thing through as if you 
felt a personal grudge against Mrs. Arthur. Surely she 
has been more uhfortunate than wicked all through the 
piece?” 

“ Do you call it honorable conduct to hold on to the 
advantages the position of Arthur’s widow gives her, when 
she has no right to it?” 

“ I don’t think I should call it as iniquitous as you seem 
to consider it, old lady. If you were in her place, don’t 
you think you would make the best fight .you could forme? 
Haven’t you fought my battles tooth and nail through 
much worse squeezes than this that she is in now? It is 
you that I’m thinking most of. I don’t want to stand up 
for this little person who has got into your bad books, but 


312 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


I do want you to come out of the business with clean 
hands. It seems to me that it wouldn’t look well for you 
to be in the front rank of her accusers. Leave the dirty 
job for somebody else to do. In any case, I don’t see the 
utility of forcing it forward now, during the old man’s 
lifetime. It can do me no good, and if he thought I should 
inherit, it might lead him to cut off every possible farthing 
from the estate, and leave the title as barren as he could.” 

This point touched her. 

“ I had not thought of that,” she said. 

“ And there is another little thing,” he added. “ I should 
take it as a personal obligation if you would drop the whole 
business, and it may be a considerable time before I ask 
you to oblige me again. I don’t want people to say that 
you were grabbing at the old man’s goods and chattels be- 
fore the breath was out of him.” 

Mrs. Mirfield’s color rose slowly. George was finding 
out the joints of her armor with a vengeance. 

“ I had not looked at it in that light,” she said consid- 
eringly. 

‘‘Of course you had not!” he answered. “That old 
griffin of a Clem has only allowed you to see things from 
his point of view — not a very exalted one, I fancy — and 
now I want you to look at them from your own standpoint. 
It would not be pleasant to you to know that you w^ere 
spoken of as a grasping, greedy woman, with a particularly 
keen eye for the main chance. Very well, then, leave me 
to manage, the business in my own fashion. When the 
right time comes to assert my claim, you need never fear 
but that I will do it; but you must leave me to choose the 
time for myself. Let it rest until my return from this ex- 
pedition. Nothing would keep me back now ; I have made 
up my mind to see some, fighting, and what good would 
the title and estates do me out among the hill-tribes in 
Burmah?” 

Mrs. Mirfield’s lips began to twitch — she had already 
had one fit of weeping this evening — and she put her hand 
on his as it lay on the arm of her chair. 

“ It will break my heart, I think,” she said brokenly. 

“ My dear old lady, that is just what it won’t do!” here- 
turned with pleasant decision. “ It will hearten you up, 


THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRAUGHT. 313 

rather. Until now, I’ve always been a sort of bogie to 
you, a person of whom you could not speak with comfort, 
because you could never find anything good to say. Oh, 
but I know all about it,” he added with a little laugh, as 
she made a movement of protest. “ I know how Lady Bur- 
ton and Mrs. Codrington, and all the rest of your cronies, 
talk about me as soon as your back is turned : ‘ Such a 
scamp of a son, my dear; everything that is wicked and 
unmentionable. Poor woman, she is greatly to he pitied!’ 
Well, now, I am going to alter all that. I am going to 
give you a chance to say something creditable about me at 
last. Think how well it will sound to say: ‘My son? Oh, 
yes; he is out fighting in India.’ And when I distinguish 
myself very greatly, and you see my name in all the papers 
as ‘having been mentioned for the V.C.,’ just imagine 
how strange arid fine it will seem to feel proud of your re- 
formed prodigal. You will hardly know what to make of 
it, after shrinking up into your shell at the mere mention 
of my name, as you’ve been doing for these last few miser- 
able years.” 

It is incredible the- rapidity with which news of this kind 
travels about in country places. Before Mrs. Mirfield and 
her son had left the dinner-table that evening, the servants 
at the Fallow were talking over his return, and his prob- 
able departure for foreign service on the morrow. 

Lady Mirfield ’s maid brought the news to her at bed- 
time, and she passed it on to Abney in the morning, and 
Abney scribbled a little note and sent the information in 
to Lord Netley with the letters which had come by the 
post. 

Since Molly’s return from Leuville, the old man had 
alluded two or three times to her account of George’s dex- 
terity and presence of mind in rescuing Artie from under 
his horse’s hoofs; and in these allusions Garth had fancied 
he saw a touch of returning kindness for the absent scape- 
grace. If he was really going abroad on active service. 
Lord Netley might like to say good-by to him. At any 
rate. Garth decided to give him the opportunity, and sent 
him the information the moment he heard it. And so it 
happened that between ten and eleven o’clock Garth pre- 
sented himself at Mrs. Mirfield’s garden gate, as ambas- 


314 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


sador from his lordship, and bearer of a shakily scribbled 
note, in which the old man asked his nephew to come up 
and shake hands before he left. 

“ They would like you to come up to dinner if you can,” 
Garth explained. “ The vicar and Mrs. Oodrington and 
Mr. Kennett are dining here to-night, and Lord Netley 
thought you might like to shake hands with them too be- , 
fore starting. ” 

And George looked at his mother’s face, and said yes. 
He did not relish the notion a bit. After his experience 
of Bohemia, and its free and easy notions of etiquette, he 
dreaded this sudden plunge into respectability again ; but 
he would make the sacrifice for his mother, and he would 
have his reward in another glance at Molly. 

It was with a curious feeling of unreality that he entered 
the large drawing-room at the Fallow again, after all these 
years of absence. It needed the pressure of his mother’s 
hand on his arm to assure him he was not in a dream. It 
was all so familiar, and yet so strange. The soft glow of 
golden-colored light from the wax candles; the Louis 
Quatorze chairs and couches, with their mellow, amber 
satin upholstery; the long row of high, narrow windows 
draped with russet brown plush ; the gorgeous white mar- 
ble mantel, carved and alcoved up to the ceiling; he re- 
membered it all so well, and yet it all seemed so strange. 
But, dreamlike as everything appeared to him in that first 
moment, nothing struck him with such a sense of unreal- 
ity as a small, daintily rounded figure, which was standing 
by Lord Netley’s chair. The figure was clad in a low-cut 
gown of black, heavily embroidered in jet, from which the 
pure white throat and shoulders rose in delicate contrast. 

Without being aware of it, he had always associated 
Molly inalienably in his memory with the white cambric 
frocks she had worn at Leuville — a figure almost childlike 
in its delicate roundness ; a tout ensemble of absolute sim- 
plicity, in which the effect was gained by the complete ab- 
sence of all thought of personal appearance. This beauti- 
fully dressed little lady, with her fashionably coiffed brown 
hair, and her gracefully cut dinner-gown, was hardly rec- 
ognizable to him in that first glance. Loving her with all 
his might as he did, it had never occurred to him that she 


THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRAUGHT. 315 


was a woman of whom a man would be proud. But, as his 
eyes fell upon her, standing with one hand on the back of 
Lord Netley’s chair, taking her part in a conversation 
which seemed to have a very profound interest for Mr. 
Codrington and Marcus Kelper, as he saw the quick, warm 
play of eye and lip, and noted how even the ponderously 
clever vicar seemed to think her observations worth listen- 
ing to, it came as a revelation to him that, with all his 
wealth of love, he had never done her full justice. Here 
was a woman whose gifts of mind and manner were at least 
equal to her personal graces. 

She saw him before he reached Lord Netley’s side, and 
flashed a glance at him as he came, which made his heart 
leap within him. Let her be as much of an adventuress as 
she might, she was a woman to be loved through every- 
thing to the death. 

The vicar and Kelper moved a little aside as he ap- 
proached — there was something of the air of a state cere- 
mony about this reception of the scape-grace by the head 
of his house — and Molly would have withdrawn too, but 
the old man put his hand out detainingly, and she re- 
mained. 

“I am very glad indeed to see you, George,” he said. 
“ Ever since Mrs. Arthur’s return from Normandy, I have 
been anxious to have an opportunity of expressing my 
gratitude to you, for your clever rescue of Arthur’s little 
son. The exploit has lost nothing at his mother’s hands, 
I can assure you.” 

“I can well believe that, sir,” returned George, with a 
look at Molly. “ If I had fetched the boy out of a powder 
magazine after the match had been lit, Mrs. Arthur could 
not have made more of it at the time.” 

With the cordiality which became him so supremely. 
Lord Netley took Mrs. Mirfield’s hands in his own. She 
had been hanging back a little, content for once to be 
effaced. 

“ So this boy is going to make a proud woman of you 
after all!” he said. “Nothing has gladdened my heart so 
much since my great trouble fell upon me as the news that 
he had applied for active service.” 

“ I wish I could feel really glad about it,” she murmured. 


316 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“Ah, that is like all you women!” cried his lordship. 
“ You are thinking of the perils when you should he think- 
ing of the glory. You waste all your tenderness on . a 
man’s physical suffering; you spend more pity on a broken 
bone or the loss of a trumpery limb than on the total ex- 
tinction of a man’s reputation. My dear sister-in-law, be 
thankful for the blessing that has fallen on you, as I am. 
George is going at last to rescue the name of Mirfield from 
the oblivion in which it has rusted for so long. I am very 
grateful to him.” 

The evening was well on, and Lord Netley had retired 
some time, before George got the opportunity he had been 
watching for, of a last word with Molly. Everybody was 
anxious to show him a little civility, and, beyond that, it 
was not easy to catch Molly by herself. She was always in 
request, and always apparently interested in the occupation 
of the moment ; and yet he knew her thoughts were with 
him the evening through. He did his very best not to let 
the people in the room see what an irresistible attraction 
she had for him. Once or twice he resolutely turned his 
chair with its back toward her end of the room, but he 
found it impossible to rest that way ; he got round again 
without knowing how, until he was able to catch an oc- 
casional glimpse of the small brown head, the turn of the 
delicate white throat, or the soft curve of the pretty arm. 
After to-night his glance might never rest on them again. 
Could it be expected of him that he should withstand the 
yearning to look his fill now? 

And again and again during the evening he told himself 
he was glad of what he had done. She was in her right 
place here, in Lord Netley’s beautiful old house, cheering 
the old man’s declining days, and playing an enchanting 
second to Charlotte’s position of hostess. And he'would 
be in his right place out yonder, potting away at the yell- 
ing fanatics whenever opportunity offered, and doing his 
best to wipe out the sickening unmanliness of his last five 
years of life, with the discomfort and discipline of a few 
flying advances into the disaffected districts in Upper Bur- 
mah. 

He caught her at last, as she came back from a last word 
or two with Mrs. Codrington at the door. His mother 


THE BITTEREST DROP IN A BITTER DRAUGHT. 317 


was talking with Mr. Kennett and Charlotte and Garth, 
quite at the other end of the room. He stopped Molly ‘and 
got her into a chair, mid-way down, near where a large 
stand of engravings stood. 

“At last!” he said, picking a picture at hazard from the 
stand, and holding it toward her upside down. “ I began 
to be afraid I was not to get a word with you.” 

“And I too!” she answered, leaning over the inverted 
print with an air of the most absorbed interest, “ and my 
heart has been in my throat all the evening at the thought. 
If you had had your own way, George, you would have 
gone away without saying one word to me about this fight- 
ing business.” 

“ What was the use of bothering you ” 

“Bothering me?” she echoed, catching him up in a lit- 
tle fury of passionate reproach. “Bothering me! You 
can speak like that to me!” 

A quick, dry sob clutched at her words and held them 
back for a moment, and he began to talk busily about 
the picture, without knowing in the least what he was 
saying. 

“You would have gone away,” she went on, when the 
little spasm was past ; “ you would have gone out there, 
into the deadly perils of this expedition — oh, don’t talk 
nonse7ise to me about its being a mere pleasure trip — with- 
out giving me a chance of saying ‘God guard you and send 
you back home in safety and honor!’ George, I’ve never 
been a good woman, but I will be now — I will, dear, be- 
cause the religious people say that the prayers of the wicked 
bring a curse rather than a blessing, and I must pray for 
you. I shall know now what it means to wrestle with God 
in prayer.” 

Her face, with its look of suppressed misery, was almost 
too much for him. She ground out her words with a dead 
mechanical regularity which told what it cost her to main- 
tain her outward calmness. 

“ Every quiet moment I have my heart will be crying 
out to Heaven for you. If I could have the opportunity 
now, I would tell you all my most unhappy history, just as 
you told me yours, and you would pity more than blame 
me, George — I know you would ! In all my long draught 


318 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


of misery, this is the bitterest drop — that you should go 
away, probably to your death, thinking evil of me.” 

“ Put that idea out of your head for good,” he said, as 
she paused, silenced for the moment by another of those 
strangling sobs which cost her such an effort to subdue. 
“I don’t think evil of you, little madame; the worst I 
think of you is that circumstances have been against you 
from the start. My mother was speaking of you last night, 
and I understood a good deal of what had puzzled me be- 
fore.” 

“You mean ” she said, and stopped as Mrs. Mir- 

field’s skirts rustled warningly behind them. 

He leaned toward her and murmured : 

“ I mean — Philpott. Hush ! I don’t think a single hard 
thing of you, Molly, but I feel for you with all my heart.” 

He had risen, and he gave her the engraving they had 
been talking across, and made a slight gesture toward the 
stand. She took the hint at once, and gained a few pre- 
cious seconds in which to recover some semblance of an 
every-day demeanor before she faced the others. She hardly 
looked at George again. She heard him ansAvering the 
good wishes of the others with an air of pleasant uncon- 
cern, and making light of the idea that there was any un- 
usual risk or danger in this expedition to Burmah. 

“At any rate, we won’t waste emotion over it to-night,” 
he said; “because, after all, my application maybe refused 
at the Horse Guards, and I don’t want you to accuse me 
by-and-bye of having piled up the agony on false pretences. ” 

Molly did not follow them out to the hall with the 
others. She felt she had stood as much as she could. 
They just shook hands inside the room with everybody’s 
eyes on them, and then she waited by the door until the 
way was clear, and hurried away to the shelter of her own 
room, and sent a message to Charlotte which would keep 
her from coming to her, and locked the door, and fought 
out her trouble alone. 

And a very wearing engagement she found it, judging 
by its effects upon her appearance during the time that 
followed. 


“ IF YOU WANT A THING DONE DO IT YOURSELF.” 319 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“if you WANT A THING DONE DO IT YOURSELF.” 

Mrs. Mirfield insisted upon going back to town with 
George, that she might be able to see him now and again 
during his last few days in England. 

He had plenty to do during those last days of bustle, 
but he contrived to alw'ays spend an hour or two with her, 
and she kept religiously in the hotel, fearful of missing 
one of his precious visits. 

But when the trying good-bys were over, the last words 
said, and a dreadful calm had succeeded the incessant oc- 
cupation of the preceding fortnight, the only task in which 
she found the least pleasure was recalling any wishes he 
had expressed, and doing her best to carry them out. 

Among other things she called on her brother, to tell 
him that she had decided to drop the investigations into 
Mrs. Arthur’s past, until George came back to conduct 
them for himself. 

But here she had reckoned without her host. 

Mr. Borthwicke’s vindictive temper was thoroughly 
aroused over this business, and he did not mean to let the 
thing rest until either he or Molly de Courcy had estab- 
lished their case. On this point, however, he chose to 
keep his own counsel, for which course of proceeding he 
doubtless had very good reason. Doubtless, also, he had 
equally good reason for showing his sister more civility 
than he was in the habit of doing, and before the interview 
was over they had slipped into a positively confidential 
style of conversation. 

It was during this confidential chat that Clem discovered 
why the campaign against Mrs. Molly was to be relin- 
quished ; and when he found that it was by George’s wish 
it had been thrown up, his masculine understanding 
jumped at once to a conclusion on the matter. He had 
seen the young woman for himself, and he was no more 
blind than any other man. George’s weakness for a pretty 


320 


A COVENANT WITH TfiE DEAD. 


face had got him into a confounded mess once already; as 
likely as not this was another instance of the old folly. 
Mrs. Molly’s speaking eyes and fetching little smile had 
done the trick again for the young ass, and he had refused 
to he benefited at her expense. Certainly the magnitude 
of the act of self-renunciation was rather staggering, hut 
then, most likely he had hopes of a reward in the sweet 
by-and-hye to buoy him up, and, meantime, he was not in 
reality losing anything during Lord Netley’s lifetime. 

There was one thing in the change of plan which put 
Clem’s hack fairly up, and this was the remembrance that 
when George chose to take the matter up for himself he 
would have the results of these previous investigations of 
his uncle’s ready at hand to begin on. And perhaps this, 
more than any other consideration, made Borthwicke de- 
cide not to let the affair drop. Alice could draw hack if 
she liked. He would go on and complete his case against 
Molly de Courcy to his own satisfaction, and then he would 
expose her or not, as circumstances might determine. 

He devoted a lot of thought to the ^air after that visit 
of Mrs. Mirfield’s. It was a month now since Philpott had 
slipped through his hands in that unsatisfactory manner ; 
a month since he had paid that last visit of his to Des- 
mond’s dressing-room, only to find out how thoroughly the 
cunning old actor had closed that road against any far- 
ther advance on his part. 

It seemed rather a hopeless task to try any of that ground 
afresh, and yet in the absence of any other suggestions 
he took refuge in it once more. The next evening he had 
at liberty he took himself off to the Old Kent Eoad again, 
to see if there was any further information to he pumped 
out of Mr. Claxton. 

His old ally, the young lady with the program.mes, was 
still standing about in the passage at the back of the dress 
circle, as anxious to be obliging and as hoarse as ever. 

From her he learned that Mr. Claxton had had “ a tre- 
mendous slice of luck.” A piece of his had been accepted 
for instant production at one of the West-end theatres — 
the “ Portico,” she believed it was. It was actually in re- 
hearsal now, and consequently he did not get down to the 
Camel and Howdah as much as he used to do of an evening. 


“ IF YOU WANT A THING DONE DO IT YOURSELF.” 321 

“It is very likely he may look in latish to-night, 
though,” she told him, “because I heard one of the ladies 
as is coming for the pantomime leave a message and a roll 
of music for him in the circle bar. She said she was sorry 
she could not wait to see him about the words of her songs; 
but she would try to get back again during the evening, 
so I expect he’s coming.” Upon the strength of this, Clem 
decided to stay. He went and left a message for Claxton 
at “the circle bar,” and resigned himself, with the best 
grace he could, to sitting out the evening’s entertainment. 

And he had to sit it out to the very end, for when the 
curtain came down he was still there, awaiting the sum- 
mons from Claxton. 

But he knew something of the habits of the people con- 
nected with this particular theatre by this time, and he 
did not give his man up yet. Instead of going straight 
home when the performance was over, he turned into the 
passage leading olf the main staircase to the bar. The 
gentlemen of the company, and some of the ladies too, 
were generally to be found here after the audience had dis- 
persed; indeed, it was a kind of informal reception they 
held here after the labors of the evening, and the gather- 
ing often lasted some distance into the small hours. This 
was Claxton’s most likely time for turning up. 

As Borthwicke turned into the bar passage he saw Clax- 
ton in front of him, going the same way. There was a 
lady with him ; a youngish woman, in mourning, with a 
slender figure, a peculiar but not ungraceful swing in her 
walk, and a great quantity of yellow hair showing under 
her stylish little black hat. 

“The pantomime lady, evidently,” Clem thought to 
himself, as he came along behind them, and then some- 
thing happened which, to use his own delightful idiom, 
“ knocked him into the midde of next week, and left him 
there without an idea to bless himself with.” 

It was only that he overheard the finish of a sentence 
spoken by the lady with the golden hair, but, considering 
everything, it was such an extraordinary sentence for her 
to say : 

— “ and the very first use I make of it will be to run over 
to Leuville, and take a peep at the little one’s grave.” 

‘ 21 


322 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Leuville ! Clem was certain he had not made a mistake 
in the name. The name of the primitive, isolated little 
place on the Normandy coast, where Arthur Mirfield’s 
married life had for the most part been passed. What 
an extraordinary coincidence that this man Claxton should 
number, among his circle of acquaintance, two people 
who knew this out-of-the-way place ! The next moment 
Borthwicke was further astonished by Claxton ’s reply. 

“ If you’ll take my advice, Molly, you’ll do nothing of 
the sort,” he said. “Do all you can to leave the past be- 
hind you, my dear; stick to Philpott by all means, like 
the little Briton you are, but forget the rest as fast as you 
can.” 

Borthwicke lost the answer to this. The passage nar- 
rowed just before the bar door was reached, and some 
thirsty souls at his side edged themselves in between him 
and Claxton and his companion. But he was so dazed 
with astonishment at what he had just heard that he was 
scarcely conscious of the unmerciful hustling. He felt as 
if he had been suddenly caught up in a whirlwind, and 
swung round and round in mid-air, and set down again 
with a thud, without breath or sense left in him. 

What in the name of bewilderment and chaos did this 
thing which he had just overheard mean? This lady 
friend of Claxton’s answered to the name of Molly, and she 
had something to do with Philpott, and she knew Leuville, 
and had some one dear to her buried there ! 

Was it likely that Claxton would have two lady friends 
who answered to all these particulars? 

The very idea was preposterous! But then, how else 
could one account for what he had heard? Unless, indeed, 
the woman at Netley Fallow was a rank impostor all 
through, who was neither Mrs. Arthur Mirfield nor Mrs. 
Philpott, nor even Molly de Courcy, but some outsider who 
had stepped into the other woman’s shoes when she chose 
to vacate them. 

The possibility presented itself and vanished again with 
the rapidity of a flash of lightning. Just at the flrst glance 
the idea looked so improbable that his reason refused to ac- 
cept it ; his thoughts merely glanced that way and returned 
at once to the immediate present. He pushed his way 


‘‘ IF YOU WANT A THING DONE DO IT YOURSELF.” 323 

through the press of people flocking round the bar, till he 
found himself close to Claxton again. 

He had found a seat for his companion in a quiet corner, 
away from the jabbering crowd round the counter, and was 
standing in front of her, talking. But to Borthwicke’s 
disappointment they had entirely changed the topic of 
conversation. Their talk now was of theatrical matters 
pure and simple ; and Clem, leaning his back against the 
wall just behind Claxton’s shoulder, heard him advise the 
yellow-haired lady to “ make the part as light as pos- 
sible.” 

“ You are bound to be a bit rusty after your long rest,” 
he said, “ and your anxiety may lead you to overact a little. 
Don’t think about acting at all; don’t attempt to make a 
character of it. Just speak and move and look as bright 
and brisk as a sparrow, and leave the part to take care of 
itself.” 

Still Clem listened on in hopes of picking up some use- 
ful scrap of information, but he had his pains for nothing. 
The lady finished her biscuit and her glass of port, and 
pulled down her veil, and shook the crumbs from her black 
feather throat mufiler, and put on her gloves, and took her 
departure through the fast-thinning throng without any 
further allusion to “the little one’s grave at Leuville,” or 
to any other subject which at all interested the listener. 

At her rising he moved away a little, so that Claxton 
should not suspect him of eaves-dropping, and then went 
forward to meet the playwright as if he had but just seen 
him. 

“I’ve been here all the evening,” he said, wondering 
why Claxton looked so disturbed at the sight of him, 
“ waiting to see you. I was almost giving you up when I 
caught sight of you up in the corner here, with your fas- 
cinating little friend. Is she an actress, Claxton?” 

“Yes,” returned Claxton. “A Miss Cunningham, who 
is going to play the souirette part in my new comedy at 
the Portico.” 

“ Miss Cunningham? Don’t remember the name. Has 
she played much in town?” 

“No; she was recommended to me by the manager she 
has been touring in the provinces with for the last year.” 


324 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ Cunningham, ” repeated Clem ; “I remember now. I 
have heard the name before. What is the Christian 
name?” 

Claxton flashed a quick glance at the questioner’s shrewd, 
weasel-like face, but at that moment it bore such a trans- 
parent look of open inquiry that the suspicion faded from 
the other’s eye at once. 

“ I don’t know her Christian name,” he answered; “ she 
does not use it on the bills, and our acquaintance is of the 
slightest at present.” 

“ Ah! The other name will follow later on, I suppose,” 
Clem said, with a meaning leer. 

He knew Claxton was not the kind of man to appreciate 
that sort of thing, but he was bound to make a pretence of 
some kind, to hide the conviction which had flashed upon 
him at the other’s refusal to mention the lady’s first name. 
He did not wish him (Clem) to know that her name was 
Molly. He must have some reason for troubling to make 
a secret of such a simple matter. He was also anxious to 
hide the fact that they were old friends — which they cer- 
tainly were; how else could Claxton’s allusion to her past 
be accounted for? — and there must be some weighty cause 
for this mystery over trifles. He would think it all out 
presently; just now his chief aim was to avoid arousing 
the other’s suspicion as to his motive. 

” She’s an uncommonly taking little woman, as far as 
looks go,” he continued, “ and I dare say she’s more taking 
still when you come to know her.” 

To which leading observation Claxton made no reply 
whatever. 

“ Have a drink?” he said, as a vacant space presented 
itself at the counter. “ It is an abominable night outside; 
the fog is as thick as pea-soup, and not half as palatable. 
I should advise a drop of something warm to cheer the 
inner man before you make a start.” 

“ Thanks,” said Clem. ” I’ll drink to the success of the 
new piece; and the new actress, too,” he added, with an- 
other of those offensive glances. “ I hope she’ll hit the 
public fancy, Claxton, for your sake.” 

“I hope so, most devoutly,” Claxton answered, with an 
unruffled air, “ considering that the success of thb under- 


“ IF YOU WANT A THING DONE DO IT YOURSELF.” 325 

plot depends entirely on the impression she makes on the 
audience.” 

Clem grinned over the rim of his glass at this answer, 
but Olaxton tasted his hot toddy in amiable unconscious- 
ness of the significant look, and asked for a piece more 
sugar without a glance at his companion’s face. 

“I suppose,” said Borthwicke, after a time, “our old 
friend Philpott has not turned up again, since he gave 
Desmond the go-by in that rum fashion?” 

“ Philpott?” Claxton murmured, repeating the name 
with the air of a person who is casting back in his mind in 
search of a fleeting memory. “ Now you speak of it, I 
don’t believe I’ve seen him since the week Desmond was 
playing at the Greenwich theatre. But I did not know 
he had given Tom the go-by. How was it? Surely those 
two never fell out? They were always such close friends. 
You’d hardly think, to look at them, that there was only 
two or three years between them, would you?” 

“ I’ve never, seen Desmond with a clean face, don’t you 
see you know,” Borthwicke answered. 

He was growing hugely dissatisfied with this interview. 
An idea was dawning upon him that Claxton knew exactly 
what he was driving at, and was playing him as easily as 
if he had been a half-pound trout at the end of a salmon 
line, and “the notion was not conducive to an amiable state 
of mind. He saw plainly enough that, for some reason or 
another, Claxton was on his guard against him, and came 
to the conclusion that Philpott had asked him to hold his 
tongue. If that was so, it was no good his wasting any 
further time in exploring this part of the ground. 

But when he was once out of Claxton ’s company, when 
he had no longer to devote his whole mind to the carrying 
on of a guarded conversation, when he was able to concen- 
trate all his thinking power on the one subject, and began 
to puzzle over the real meaning of the events of the even- 
ing, he came to the conclusion that his time had certainly 
not been wasted. 

This actress, whose Christian name was Molly, and who 
had a little one buried at Leuville, there must certainly be 
a connection of some sort between her and that other ac- 
tress of the same Christian name, who had also a relative 


326 


A COVENANT WITH THE HEAD. 


buried at Leuville. When this idea presented itself to him 
now, and he had time to look it fairly in the face, he saw 
suddenly another possibility, side by side with it, which 
stunned him into absolute stillness. 

He was alone in the fog on Waterloo Bridge at the mo- 
ment the inspiration came to him, and he stopped abruptly 
and put his hand out gropingly toward the parapet, as if 
the shock of this sudden conviction had unsteadied his 
equilibrium. 

George Mirfield was the only person who had investi- 
gated that portion of Molly de Courcy’s past which had 
been spent at Leuville, and George Mirfield was the person 
who had used his influence to put a stop to the inquiry, 
and leave the pretty little schemer unmolested in the posi- 
tion she had gained for herself. What if George Mirfield 
had known the truth against her all the time, and had sup- 
pressed it? What if the woman and child at Netley Fal- 
low had never had anything at all to do with the Honor- 
able Arthur Mirfield? What if this Miss Cunningham was 
the real Molly de Courcy, the real Mrs. Philpott, who had 
contracted a bigamous marriage with Lord Netley’s second 
son? What if Arthur Mirfield’s little son was all this time 
lying in his grave in the Leuville churchyard, and George 
Mirfield knew it, and was conniving at the fraud that was 
being perpetrated? It was incredible, but was it absolutely 
impossible? There had never been a time in Clement 
Borthwicke’s life when he could have been guilty of such 
a gigantic piece of folly, but he had heard of such things 
in his time. Once a man allowed a woman to make a fool 
of him there were no limits to his imbecility; he would go 
greater lengths at the bidding of his passion for a woman 
than he would go for any other motive under heaven. 

The grave alluded to by this friend of Claxton’s, was it 
the grave of Arthur Mirfield’s child, and had George 
known it, and hidden it from his mother of set pur- 
pose? 

Standing against the bridge parapet, with the chill, foul 
fog closing him in like a wall, through which the West- 
minster chimes, sounding the quarters, floated up slug- 
gishly, Clem argued the question backward and forward, 
this way and that, until the belief that he was at last on 


“if you want a thing done do it yourself.” 327 

the direct route for the accomplishment of his purpose 
grew almost into a certainty. 

He saw now the meaning of those reported sayings of 
Molly’s concerning the falseness of her boy’s position at 
Netley ; he saw, too, the meaning of the little comedy in 
the hall at Netley Fallow, when Eoyston made his sudden 
appearance on the scene and noted with ever-increasing sat- 
isfaction how that event fitted, in with his new theory. 

That designing little minx had expected nothing less 
than instant exposure at the hands of Arthur Mirfield’s old 
friend. Considering everything, Eoyston’s magnanimity 
was positively astounding. He certainly carried the prin- 
ciple of minding his own business to its extremest limit. 
What could have been his motive for such extraordinary 
forbearance? 

This brought up another branch of the question for 
Borthwicke’s consideration: If this young woman was not 
Arthur Mirfield’s reputed wife, who was she? Surely there 
must be some good reason why such men as Eoyston and 
Abney Garth should fight her battles for her? This part 
of the mystery, interesting enough in itself, was yet of no 
importance in its bearing on the main point at issue. So 
long as he could prove the young woman at Netley was not 
the Molly de Courcy whom Arthur Mirfield had married, 
it did not really matter in the least who she was ; at any 
rate that was how Clem looked at the matter from his pres- 
ent point of view, and he thought he saw his way clearly 
enough to the attainment of this end now. The first time 
he found himself with two days to spare he would run 
across to Leuville himself, and do a little investigation on 
his own account. He had been a consummate fool to leave 
the matter as George had arranged it so long ; it was an- 
other exemplification of Punch’s time-honored advice — “If 
you want a thing done do it yourself.” 


328 


A COVENANT TVITH THE DEAD. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

CLEM DOES IT HIMSELF. 

November was nearly out before Clem was able to spare 
the two or three days necessary for his trip to Leu vi lie. 
Now that Mrs. Mirfield had backed out of the affair, all 
further expenses in connection with it would have to come 
out of his own pocket. Under these circumstances it was 
not worth his while to let it interfere with other and more 
paying concerns. 

But the moment the opportunity did present itself he 
took advantage of it and went, and in spite of his exces- 
sively meagre knowledge of French, and the Normandy 
fisher-folks’ complete ignorance of English, he contrived 
to find out sufficient* to convince him that he was on the 
right track at last. He saw for himself the small grave in 
the cemetery, on the wind-swept headland above the vil- 
lage, and he managed to elicit the fact from Mme. Lorton 
that the wife of the Englishman who was buried in the 
cemetery had a splendid head of yellow hair. 

To say that he was altogether and entirely charmed with 
the results of his trip would be a misstatement of the facts. 
Amid all his satisfaction there lurked a lingering annoy- 
ance at the past three months’ delay. If, when his sister 
had first come to him early in September, to ask his assist- 
ance in exposing this woman’s imposture, he had come 
straight over to Leuville, instead of running about after 
evidence of that previous marriage, the whole thing would 
have been brought to a climax, and the little swindler ex- 
posed, and forced to evacuate her position, before George 
appeared in the matter at all. That his nephew should 
have been one too many for him, that he should have been 
so easily hoodwinked by a youngster like that, was hurtful 
to Clem’s self-conceit, inasniuch as for a time it lowered 
his opinion of his own cuteness. 

Convinced in his own mind, as he now was, that the 
young woman at Netley was no more Arthur Mirfield ’s 


CLEM DOES IT HIMSELF. 


329 


widow, and the child no more Arthur Mirfield’s little son 
than he was the Emperor of Morocco, there were one or 
two puzzling things even now which he could not keep out 
of his thoughts. Principal among these was the conduct of 
the real Molly all through the business. She it was who had 
rushed the removal from Thompson’s Buildings, in order 
that Clem should not get at Philpott to take him down to 
Netley. She it was who had inspired the letter to Des- 
mond, and put an end to Philpott ’s visits to the theatre, 
and no doubt it was in obedience to her wishes that Olax- 
ton had tried to hide the identity of Molly de .Courcy with 
Miss Cunningham. But why? 

What interest could the real Molly de Courcy have in 
concealing the imposture of the make-believe? There was 
a good deal, even yet, in this extraordinary case of fraud- 
ulent impersonation which Clem, with all his shrewdness, 
could not get at the bottom of, and Clem Borthwicke was 
one of those men who had a strong liking for knowing 
thoroughly the road he was going to travel. 

As he journeyed back from his successful visit to Leu- 
ville, he formed, the project of interviewing this Miss 
Cunningham, alias Molly de Courcy, alias Mrs. Arthur 
Mirfield, alias Mrs. Dick Philpott, on his own account, 
and getting from her some explanation of her extraordinary 
conduct in the alfair, before he proceeded to finally de- 
molish the imitation Molly de Courcy at Netley Eallow. 

There was no difficulty whatever about carrying out this 
scheme. He bought a paper when lie arrived at Charing 
Cross, and found out from the advertisements that Clax- 
ton’s piece was being played at the Portico, and that Miss 
Cunningham was playing in it. 

He got some dinner at one of the Strand restaurants, 
and then went down to the stage door of the Portico, and 
asked if Miss Cunningham was on until the end of the 
piece. Having ascertained that she was, and that the cur- 
tain was not down until ten minutes past eleven, he went 
away, and devoted the evening to other matters, and re- 
turned to the theatre in time to catch the little actress as 
she came out. 

As he ‘approached, the stage door for the second time, 
down one of the silent, narrow streets at the back of the 


330 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Strand, he overtook a man going in the same direction, 
whose outlines seemed familiar to him. It was rather 
difficult to be certain of anything in the semi -obscurity of 
the shabby little thoroughfare, and it was not until a feeble 
hand came searching uncertainly for nothing along the 
edge of the back of his coat-collar that Clem was certain of 
his man. 

Philpott, beyond a doubt, coming down to meet his wife — 
the wife “Molly,” of whom he had talked in the lunatic 
asylum ; the wife of whose goodness and forbearance he had 
spoken with such confidence in the moment of his direst 
distress. 

Clem hung back a little as they drew near the brilliant 
circle of light thrown by the lamp over the stage door, and 
heard the hall-keeper accost Philpott by name, and ask 
after his cough, and tell him that his wife would not be 
long. 

Clem was not at all doubtful as to the result of the ap- 
proaching interview. It would have been rather more con- 
venient to have had the young woman to himself, perhaps; 
hut, knowing all he knew, he would have undertaken to 
turn her mentally inside out had she been protected by a 
far more alarming personage than this broken-down old 
drunkard, with one foot already in the grave. 

Standing a little back in the shadow, he watched several 
departures before the person he was waiting for arrived. 
He heard her before he saw her. 

“Now, Dick, why did you come down to-night?” a 
bright voice sang out. “ What a tiresome old chappie you 
are ! You ought not to have put your nose outside the 
door on such a cold night as this.” 

“It’s no good, Molly,” Philpott answered, as they both 
came out of the door into Clem’s view, and he recognized 
the undulating walk and the yellow hair of Claxton’s fas- 
cinating little friend ; “ it’s no good, my dear. I can’t 
sit the long evening through alone, and it comforts me to 
think that I am still of some little use to you. I know 
what the London streets are at night for a good-looking 
woman.” 

“ Oh, I’m too old a hand to be frightened about that,” 
she answered, shooting a sharp glance at Clem in the 


CLEM DOES IT HIMSELF. 


331 


shadow, as they passed him. “ And you really ought not 
to have turned out to-night, Dick. This wind is enough 
to cut one in two.” 

“ Who is it?” asked Philpott, as they went on down the 
quiet street. “ Do you know him, Molly?” 

“ I could hardly see him,” came the answer. “ There is. 
always somebody or another waiting about for somebody 
else of a night. Come, let’s hurry, Dick; we may catch 
the half -past eleven ’bus from Waterloo Bridge if we make 
haste.” 

But here Clem interposed from behind. 

“ I beg your pardon ! It is Mr. Philpott, and Mrs, 
Philpott, of course! I recognize the voice. The very 
people I was waiting to see.” 

They stopped short on being addressed, hut when he 
moved on at their side they went on also, Mrs. Philpott 
glancing keenly at him from behind her veil, and palpably 
at a loss on the question of his identity. 

“ I have been referred to you for a little information on 
a business matter that I have in hand just now,” he went on, 
doing his best to be reassuring ; “ nothing very alarming — 
perhaps it is m*ore of an explanation than information that 
I want. Aren’t we close to Catti’s here?” They were, in 
fact, not half-a-dozen yards from the back entrance of that 
place of public entertainment. “ Shall we go in there, and 
have our little chat over a cigarette and a cup of chocolate 
for Mr. Philpott and me, and a little mulled wine for you, 
Mrs. Philpott? I’ve learned my lesson too well, don’t you 
see you know, to suggest anything in the intoxicating line 
for the husband.” 

Mrs. Philpott gave a quiet assent to the arrangement. 
She did not know in the least who the little man with the 
sharp, brisk speech and the restless, head-like eyes might 
be; hut he was evidently an acquaintance of poor old 
Dick’s, since he knew all about his compulsory abstinence. 
She followed without protest as he led the way to one of 
the most retired tables in the large, brilliantly lit room, 
which was already pretty full with the after-the-play-sup- 
per people. She managed to ask Dick, as they went, if he 
remembered who their unknown friend was; hut he shook 
his head helplessly, and began to search his waistcoat pock- 


332 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


ets, with both hands at once, as if he hoped to come across 
the missing means of identification there. 

He had met him lately somewhere, he said ; his face was 
quite familiar to him, and that was all he could remember 
on the subject. She did not bother him any further. 
The hospitable unknown was most likely some mere 
dressing-room acquaintance. Dick so often forgot people 
and names now ; day by day the failure of memory in- 
creased upon him ; it was one of the inexorable penalties 
of his past excesses. 

Clem secured the table he wanted — the last one in a row, 
right up in a corner — and arranged the seating so that 
Mrs. Philpott had her back to the room, and then kept the 
talk on indifferent subjects until their needs had been sup- 
plied, and they were left in comparative seclusion. He 
meant, if possible, to surprise the truth out of his witness 
by the suddenness of his attack, and did not wish the whole 
room to become participators in the little scene. 

“Now for my little inquiry,” he said, when the waiter 
had finally taken his departure and left them to themselves. 
“ You will certainly think me a very inquisitive old party, 
Mrs. Philpott, but I have the very best of reasons for my 
curiosity, I assure you.” 

He paused an instant to give fuller weight to what was 
coming, and then shot his bolt full at her, with his eyes 
steadily on her face. 

“ What has been your motive in allowing that woman at 
Netley Fallow to assume your name and rights for the last 
eighteen months?” 

She did not answer him directly. She went very white, 
and her hand instinctively tightened its hold on her glass, 
but she said nothing for what seemed, in the emotion of 
the moment, to be quite a long time,. but which was in 
reality only a few seconds. Then she drew a big breath, 
and said: 

“ Now I know who you are. You are the man who tried 
over a month ago to entice Dick down to Lord Netley’s 
place.” 

“Of course!” exclaimed Dick, with a sudden fiash of 
memory; but Clem cut short the interruption. 

“ Never mind that !” he said sharply ; “ give me a straight 


CLEM DOES IT HIMSELF. 


333 


answer to my question. What was your motive in helping 
to shield the woman who calls herself Arthur Mirfield’s 
widow?” 

“ You’re going a little too fast,” she answered him, and 
he saw she was considerably shaken for all her show of un- 
concern. “ It’s not likely I should answer whatever ques- 
tions a stranger chose to put to me, without knowing who 
he is or anything about him, especially when the questions 
are about other people’s affairs. What do you mean by 
‘shielding people’? And what have I got to do with Ar- 
thur Mirfield’s or any one else’s widow?” 

Mr. Borthwicke shook his head and smiled a very supe- 
rior smile. 

“ That line is of no use at all to you, my dear girl,” he 
said. “ I’m not such a fool as to put a question like that 
to you unless I knew exactly what I was doing; I know 
everything there is to know — everything that is of impor- 
tance, I mean, don’t you see you know — and it was only to 
gratify my personal curiosity that I troubled to come to 
you to-night. I’ve this evening returned from Leuville, 
where I saw the grave of Arthur Mirfield’s boy — ’your hoy, 
too, of course — and the portrait which you gave to the old 
woman-servant at the little cottage on the hill of Arthur 
Mirfield, and his wife and child, in a family group. The 
picture hardly does you justice; still, it is meant for you 
as certainly as it is not meant for the stuck-up little fool 
who is passing herself off as Arthur’s widow down at Net- 
ley. You see, the whole thing has burst up; the exposure 
will be as complete a thing as one could desire. What I 
said is the truth. Everything that is important to the 
case I know. Whether you speak or hold your tongue 
makes not the faintest difference to the main point ; only 
I was curious to know how you had been persuaded into 
standing on one side while another woman collared all the 
advantages which you might have claimed for yourself. I 
said to myself that there must be some powerful reason for 
such a supernal piece of unselfishness as«all that, and I was 
curious to know what it was.” 

“Molly was always unselfish,” Dick put in; but she 
turned and silenced him at once. 

“You don’t know what we’re talking about, old boy,” 


334 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


she said, with kindly peremptoriness, “ and yon may do a 
lot of harm without meaning it, so just hold your tongue 
for a little while.” 

“Very good, my dear!” he answered, with a smile which 
was heart-breaking, because of its unsuccessful attempt to 
conceal his knowledge of his own mental deficiency. “ She 
is the head of the firm now, sir; I am only the sleeping 
partner.” 

She put her hand across the table and laid it on his, as 
she turned again to Clem. 

“ You are very keen to find out the motive of my con- 
duct in this business. Suppose I change places with you 
for a moment, and ask you what is your interest in the 
matter?” 

He answered without an instant’s hesitation : 

“ I am acting for the next in succession, failing issue in 
the direct line, my nephew, George Mirfield.” 

“ Oh ! Then I suppose you have some right to stir up 
the family puddle,” she said, speaking, all the same, as if, 
even while admitting it, she grudged him the right ; “ but 
you can’t compel me to help you in the unfortunate busi- 
ness, and so I think I’ll bid you good-night. Come along, 
Hick!” 

But he made a quick gesture to her to keep her seat. 

“Stop a minute,” he said hastily; “don’t be in such a 
hurry. You may as well hear what I’ve got to say, now 
you are here. If you go off in a huff like that, as likely as 
not you’ll be sorry for it before you’re a week older.” 

She dropped back into her chair and waited. 

“ You see, it’s this way,” he went on. “ I tell you can- 
didly that at this present moment, with all I have discov- 
ered against that mealy-faced little impostor fresh in my 
mind, nothing would please me better than to go in with 
a rush and drive her bang back on the ropes — I’m that 
savage at the way she’s fooled the Mirfields all this time. 
But it seems to me that you must know of some extenuat- 
ing circumstances in her case ; else why, in the name of 
common sense, should you have given her this pull on Ar- 
thur Mirfield ’s relations? Well, if you do know anything 
that will tell to her credit, now is the time to out with it. 
I don’t say that it will make me stop dead in what I am 


CLEM DOES IT HIMSELF. 


335 


doing, but I will say this : If there was any sort of an ex- 
cuse for her conduct I might — I don’t say I loould^ but I 
might — give her a chance of getting out of the way quietly, 
before the grand show-up comes olf ; so if you’re anxious to 
do her a good turn your best plan is to speak out.” 

He saw plainly enough that he had shaken her resolution 
to keep silence at all costs, and hastened to add another 
argument in favor of speaking — an argument which, be- 
cause it would have told heavily with himself, he expected 
would tell with her. 

‘'And there is another thing to be considered in the 
atfair — your own well-being. Do you know that in father- 
ing this woman’s imposture you are laying yourself open to 
the risk of an action at law, for conspiring to defraud.” 

“That part of the business doesn’t frighten me a bit,” 
she answered at once. “ When I undertook to keep myself 
out of the way I was told that no harm could possibly come 
to me, even if the whole thing was discovered, and I’d 
trust Mr. Garth not to make a promise of that sort unless 
he ” 

She checked herself suddenly, warned by his roused look 
of what she had done. 

“ So it was Garth who influenced you,” he said. “ Come, 
we’re getting on! I always knew he was one of the chief 
movers in the conspiracy; but it’s reassuring to have one’s 
convictions verified. And he promised you that you should 
not suffer for helping him brew this kettle of broth, did 
he? Of course what he meant was that he would keep you 
out of the show-up altogether. But the matter will no 
longer be in his hands, don’t you see you know, and it 
strikes me you’ll have to dance to the piping of an alto- 
gether different person, and to an altogether different tune, 
before the thing is done with. And besides, after all is 
said and done, what’s the good of holding back now? The 
game is fairly played out. All there is to know against 
this young woman, so far as the fraud on Lord Netley 
goes, I know. Your motive for taking part with her 
would, I imagine, tell for her rather than against her ; so 
why should you make such a secret of it?” 

“That’s true enough.” She was looking thoughtful 
now ; he saw the indecision in her good, steadfast, brown 


336 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

eyes, and left her to it. “ It was partly out of pure grati- 
tude to Mr. Garth,” she went on slowly, “and partly be- 
cause I was so sorry for the poor soul herself — she had been 
so cruelly wronged. Lord Mirfield promised her marriage, 
and then allowed his father to persuade him into marrying 
another lady.” 

“ Who — who promised her marriage?” gasped Borth- 
wicke, letting his cigarette fall from his loosened fingers, 
and gaping open-mouthed across the table at her. 

“ Lord Mirfield — Lord Netley’s eldest son. He wronged 
her cruelly, and she was scarcely more than a child, Mr. 
Garth told me. Her father was a tenant-farmer, holding 
a farm under a friend of Lord Mirfield’s. He met her 
while he was staying at his friend’s house, and persuaded 
her to run away with him.” 

“Good God!” gasped Clem, and sat silent; for once in 
his life too overcome for words. 

“You see it all fell out so curiously,” she continued. 
“ I always believed I was Arthur’s wife, until I came to 
look through his papers after his death, and then I found 
a letter from Dick here, to me, telling me that I had really 
been Mrs. Philpott all the time. You know all about that, 
I suppose?” 

Clem summoned enough presence of mind to nod his 
head, and she went on, obviously relieved not to be com- 
pelled to go into the details of that cowardly crime in the 
presence of the perpetrator. 

“ Well, I had just found this letter — which poor Arthur 
had kept back from me — I had just realized the fact that 
I had no sort of claim on Lord Netley, when Mr. Garth 
arrived from England to take me back home to Netley Fal- 
low. Of course I told him my exact position, and he was 
very good to me. Ho, I won’t bother you with that part 
of the story,” she said briskly, in reply to a slight move- 
ment from Clem; “you don’t look the sort of man to ap- 
preciate the account of another man’s goodness. I’ll go 
straight on. Mr. Garth would not hear of leaving me. 
He brought me back to London, and if I had been a prin- 
cess of the royal blood he could not have treated me with 
more consideration. I had set my face against going 
among the Mirfields, but he would not lose sight of me. 


CLEM DOES IT HIMSELF. 


337 


Lord Netley would care for me, he said, and it was not to 
be thought of that I should place my life in Dick’s hands 
again. We had scarcely arrived in London when Mr. 
Garth was fetched away to Lord Mirfield’s deathbed ; he 
had been fatally hurt in a railway accident, and he died 
that night. 

“ When Mr. Garth came back to me the next morning, 
the change in him frightened me ; he looked like an old 
man. He told me he had been up all night with Lord 
Mirfield, and that with his dying breath he had begged 
him to save the woman he had wronged from the conse- 
quences of his wickedness. And then Mr. Garth asked me 
to let this ill-treated woman take the place which had been 
prepared for me among Arthur’s people. Nobody at Net- 
ley knew me by sight — nobody knew that my baby was 
dead. It would be harming nobody to let these other poor 
creatures take my place, and the place of my dead baby, 
and it would be doing a real justice in the sight of God. 
In any case he should hold himself responsible for my fut- 
ure comfort, he said ; but if I would do this I should lay 
him under an obligation which he could never repay. 

“ Well, I consented. I had no rights of my own to re- 
sign, you see, so that it was a cheap piece of generosity 
after all. This other lady and her child were to go down 
to Lord Netley as Arthur’s child and wife, late Molly de 
Courcy, and I was to stay behind as Mrs. Somebody-else. 
And, what is more, I don’t believe the trick would ever 
have been found out if I had not happened to meet Dick, 
a month or six weeks ago, looking so ill and wretched that 
I could not leave him to himself any longer. It was the 
first time I had seen him since I married Arthur Mirfield, 
and the change in him horrified me so much that I 
couldn’t go back to the comfortable home Mr. Garth had 
found for me, and leave him to die like a dog, alone, in 
the gutter, and so we’ve made up our minds to see the rest 
of it out together.” 

“ May I never advance another penny at good interest if 
you’re not an out-and-out trump!” said Clem. “You 
wom-en are rum beggars to understand. Well, you’ve as- 
tonished me over this business and no mistake. You have 
created a regular houleversementy as our friend Mme. Lor- 
22 


338 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


ton would say, in my ideas. I’m dashed if I can see what 
my next step will be! One thing you may be quite satis- 
fied of — that you’ve not injured that unlucky little wom- 
an’s case by speaking out. She shall, at all events, have 
the chance to get away quietly, whether she chooses to take 
it or not. It does make a difference to know that the boy 
is really the child of the eldest son, although he was born 
on the wrong side of the sheet. Great Scot ! what a row 
there will be between the two women when Lady Mirfield 
finds out who the little ’un is! Yes, I certainly will give 
her the chance of clearing out before I blow the gaff on 
the whole business.” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Philpott; “I’m glad of that. 
After all Mr. Garth’s kindness to me, I shouldn’t like to 
think I had harmed anybody he took an interest in.” 

“Well, then,” began Clem, and stopped, and went on 
again. “ If you and Mr. Philpott have been together ever 
since he came away from Redcross — and now I come to 
reckon back, you must have met within a day or two of 
his discharge from there — what did he go down to Cram- 
lingford for?” 

“ Cramlingford? When?” 

“ Why, within a week or two of his leaving the asylum.” 

“ Dick has never been out of London since he came out 
of Redcross.” 

“ You’re sure of that?” 

“ Quite.” 

Clem looked staggered. Here was another puzzling prob- 
lem. Who was the man who had put up at the Cramling- 
ford inn, and busied himself so curiously about the past 
histories of the ladies at Netley Fallow? Until now he 
had always thought it was Philpott. Since it was not he, 
the question presented itself. Who was it? 

Mrs. Philpott glanced at the clock, and began to arrange 
her veil in the opposite mirror, and signed to Philpott to 
finish his chocolate. 

“ My friend Mr. Claxton will chaff me finely about this 
meeting with you,” she said. “He told me I should not 
find it so easy to bury Molly de Courcy as I seemed to 
think, and he was right. If you see Mr. Garth in the 
course of this business, will you do me the favor of explain- 


CLEM DOES IT HIMSELF. 


339 


ing to him that I would never have risked discovery by re- 
turning to the stage, but for my husband’s ill-health. 
There was no other way in which I could earn enough for 
the two of us, you see.” 

“ Yes, I see,” answered Clem, with a sudden extraordinary 
impulse of admiration ; “ and I see that, no matter who is 
to blame, you have behaved like a heroine from beginning 
to end. I’ve never introduced myself to you properly, 
Mrs. Philpott, but my name is Borthwicke — Clement 
Borthwicke, of Gray’s Inn — and I should like very much 
to shake hands with you, if you have no objection.” 

She looked a little surprised, and perhaps a little amused, 
but she gave him her hand without the least hesitation, 
and bid him a cordial “Good-night,” and tucked one of 
her husband’s lost-looking hands snugly under her arm, 
and marched him off steadily down the long room, between 
the rows of little tables, looking neither to the right nor 
left, and neither seeing nor heeding the looks of recogni- 
tion which two or three supping parties bestowed on her 
as she went. 

And Clem Borthwicke, watching her, felt, for the first 
and last time in his life, a twinge of genuine sentiment, 
and said to himself, with a touch of incredulous astonish- 
ment, that he supposed there must be something after all 
in a woman’s love, else how could her conduct to that 
despicable old blackguard be accounted ^pr. 

It was a long walk to take in the small hours, from the 
top of the Strand to Gray’s Inn, but Clem walked it that 
night. 

He wanted to think, and the rattle of a hansom is at no 
time conducive to coherent meditation. And so he 
tramped his way steadily across the heart of London, and 
had his argument out with himself in peace. 

He was not, perhaps, an admirable nor even an esti- 
mable man, but neither was he a veritable ogre ; and he 
found it impossible to think so badly of Molly, or even to 
wish so unreservedly for her downfall, now that he knew 
the nature of her claim on the Mirfield family. He was 
sorry for her, and, after his discoveries at Leuville, that 
was a state of mind he had never expected to find him- 
self in. 


340 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


He understood Eoyston’s conduct now. He remembered 
that gentleman’s allusion to his visit to Lord Mirfield’s 
yacht. He had undoubtedly seen Molly there, and had 
known exactly whom he was befriending when he fathered 
the poor little woman’s imposture. It was true enough 
that there was still a smouldering resentment against Eoys- 
ton in Clem’s mind, but even so it seemed to him that that 
“ starchy old party” had shown a remarkably decent feeling 
in acting as he had done. 

How he, Clem Borthwicke, was to act now remained an 
open question — a very open question. He reached home 
before he had arrived at any decision on the point, and 
sleep overtook him while he was still casting about in his 
mind for some middle course, which should insure ultimate 
justice to George, while protecting Molly from the shame 
and degradation of a public exposure. 


CHAPTEE XXVII. 

THE TELEGRAM FROM REDHEAD. 

As far as Molly’s — she always remained “ Molly ” to the 
end of the chapter with those who had first known her by 
that name — as far as Molly’s own welfare was concerned, it 
was perhaps a good thing that her time was so occupied 
after George’s departure that she had no leisure in which 
to dwell upon her own sorrows. 

Lord Netley’s constitution was breaking up rapidly. 
The evening George dined at the Fallow was his last ap- 
pearance downstairs, and as the end approached he han- 
kered after the companionship of Molly and her boy more 
and more, until it ended in a bedroom being fitted up for 
them in that wing of the house, so that Molly could get 
an hour or two’s rest, just as the old man could spare her, 
without ever being beyond call. 

The little woman certainly got pale under this close con- 
finement, but she did not get wretched and despairing and 
desperate, as she might have done if left to the contempla- 
tion of her own heart troubles. The quiet, cheery bear* 


THE TELEGRAM FROM REDHEAD. 


341 


ing slie cultivated for the invalid’s benefit reacted on her 
for her own, and she found that, since it was God’s will 
that this grief should darken her life, she was able to en- 
dure it, and even to smile under it, deep as the hurt was, 
and lasting as it was likely to be. 

Day by day she sat in Lord Netley’s half-darkened room 
— his last shred of well-bred vanity had forsaken him now ; 
he no longer offered any opposition to the coming and go- 
ing of those he loved in his room. As she sat hour after 
hour by the bedside of the dying man, he opened his whole 
heart and mind to her, and day by day her gladness in- 
creased at her own reticence concerning the past. 

“ I am glad Arthur married you,'’ he said on one of these 
occasions. “When I first heard of it, I was infamous 
enough to say to myself that he was a fool to have gone to 
such a length as marriage ; that doubtless you could have 
been managed without such a sacrifice as that; but, as I 
lie here now, and feel the end drawing nearer and nearer, 
it is an untold comfort to me to be able to think that 
neither of my sons had such a weight on their souls as poor 
George Mirfield has^. It must be an awful memory to a 
man to know he has* been the ruin of an innocent woman — 
awful, at least, when he draws near to death, and sees 
such things with the clearer vision which comes with his 
near approach to his Maker.” 

And Molly, listening to this, and to many another speech 
like it, felt at last that she had done well to hold her peace 
about her wrongs. 

“ I was very severe on George,” he said, at another time. 
“ Simply because he was the son of his mother I had never 
liked him, and when everybody lifted up their hands and 
called him hard names, I was one of the harshest of all his 
judges. Now that I begin to feel the need of mercy my- 
self, I wish I had been more merciful to him ; but that 
was always where I failed. I have always been too impla- 
cable. I have not even mentioned his name in my will, 
Molly, but — it would be easy enough to add a codicil. 
Should you begrudge him a few thousands of my savings, 
and would you object to him as co-trustee with Abney, to 
look after the estate during our boy’s minority?” 

Molly’s answer to this can be easily guessed at; her only 


342 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


difficulty was not to let him see how overjoyed she was at 
the suggestion. 

“ Whether the change was more in him or in me, I can’t 
tell,” he went on, “ but he seemed to me very much altered 
for the better when he dined here the other night. He 
had lost some of his old, defiant recklessness ; there was a 
touch of consideration for other people’s little failings, 
which was something altogether new in my experience of 
him. At his very worst he was always a good fellow to his 
mother, but it was something of an improvement to see 
him patient and good-natured under Kennett’s patronage 
and Oodrington’s pedantry. I should like to show some 
sign of my improved opinion of him.” 

So Abney was spoken to about the matter, for in these 
days Abney stood quite in the position of son of the house; 
and, having given his unqualified approval to the scheme 
the lawyer was sent for, and the necessary addition was 
made to Lord Netley’s testamentary arrangements. 

And scarcely a week after the codicil had been added 
the end came, and came so quietly that the nurse, sitting 
in a light doze by the head of the bed, could hardly believe 
in the reality of it until she had applied her tests. 

Molly and Abney, being the nearest at hand, were the 
first ones summoned, and when they were left for a brief 
moment by the bedside, with all that was left of their 
stanch friend before them, Molly spoke through her quiet 
tears. 

“ So that is over,” she said, “ and part of my oath to the 
dead has been carried out to its fullest accomplishment. I 
never betrayed Lionel to his father by word nor deed ; but 
the deceit has pressed very heavily upon me sometimes. 
If my love for the poor, childless old man had not been so 
deep and strong, I don’t think I could have gone through 
with it. What a friend he was, Abney ! If he never for- 
gave a wrong, he never forgot a favor. Friendship was 
something more than an empty word with him!” 

“ I need to be told that least of all the world,” answered 
Garth, with pale, firm-set lips. “Did ever man have a 
better friend, since men have lived, than I had in him? 
It would not be possible. He was a man of few faults and 
great virtues. Now that they have lost him, people will 


THE TELEGRAM FROM REDHEAD. 


343 


find out what grand qualities he had. There was some- 
thing heroic, even about his failings ; he was a warrior to 
the core of his heart, but he never fought unfairly. When 
Mr. Eoyston was here he told me some anecdotes of his do- 
ings when in office. He said the main secret of the success 
of his department was the confidence of the opposition. 
He was a bitter enemy, but his animosity was as straight- 
forward as his policy was outspoken. I expect we of this 
generation will be astonished when we read some of the 
things that will be said of him now he is gone.” 

And they were, but not just then, for in the days suc- 
ceeding his death circumstances combined to centre their 
thoughts very much upon their own private affairs. It 
was not until later on that they found time to take pleas- 
ure in the tributes paid by a large-minded press to the ex- 
cellences and abilities of the head of their house. 

Clement Borthwicke was among the people upon whom 
the news of the death came with an unpleasant shock, be- 
cause he saw that, if he meant to move at all in the matter 
of establishing George’s claim, now was the time to do it. 
It was singularly unfortunate, from his point of view, that 
the event should have happened just now. If it had hap- 
pened a little earlier, before he had found out the truth 
about the reputed heir and his mother, he would have gone 
in without the slightest compunction and shown her up. 
If, on the other hand, it had happened a month or two 
later, his compassion for the unfortunate young woman 
would have had time to cool, and he might not have found 
the task of turning her boy and her out of Netley so ex- 
ceedingly distasteful as he did just now. He felt it was 
excessively rough on him that he should be called upon to 
do this thing, just at the time when he felt such an unu- 
sual desire to be merciful. 

This feeling was so strongly on him that it is even pos- 
sible that he might have consented to stand aside alto- 
gether, and leave things to take their course, as George had 
requested, until his return from India, but for a certain 
combination of events, which forced his hand in spite of him. 

On the third evening after Lord Netley’s death — a Sat- 
urday evening — he received a telegram from Eedhead, the 
landlord of the inn at Cramlingford. 


344 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ The man you want is here, has opened communications 
already with Mrs. A. M. Am trying to prevent meeting 
until your arrival. Waste no time.” 

The receipt of this telegram flurried him, because he 
could not understand what it meant, and in this flurry he 
decided by all means to go down to Cramlingford. In 
any case it was better to be on the spot and see what was 
going on. 

What was puzzling him now was the individuality of 
the man at the Cramlingford inn, and the motive of his 
desire to see the poor little woman at Netley Fallow. It 
was evidently somebody who knew all there was to know, 
and who was seeking an opportunity to make a good 
market for his knowledge. The news of Lord Netley’s 
death had probably warned him that this opportunity had 
arrived, and he had lost no time in getting on the field of 
action. 

Well, if there was to be a gigantic show-up, Clem felt 
that, having wasted so much time and thought over the 
precious business, he had a kind of right to be in at the 
death ; so he decided to get down as soon as he could and 
see for himself how things were going. As it happened 
he was out until late on the Saturday evening when the 
telegram from Redhead arrived, and so missed that night’s 
mail. He had had experience of the slow Sunday trains 
already, but there seemed to be no help for it, unless he 
waited patiently for the Monday trafidc, and this he did not 
feel inclined to do. 

And, thanks to his impatience, he did get down in time 
to see the finish, though not in time to prevent the meet- 
ing between old Dick Redhead’s mysterious guest and the 
ladies at the Fallow. 

For, at the very moment that the telegraph boy was 
handing Redhead’s message over to the care of the lodge- 
keeper at Gray’s Inn, Molly was in conversation with the 
unknown stranger, beyond the shrubberies which enclosed 
the ladies’ lawn at Netley. 

The afternoon post, being a local delivery only, seldom 
brought much news to Netley Fallow ; but during the few 
days following Lord Netley’s death, every post that arrived 


THE TELEGRAM PROM REDHEAD. 


345 


brought shoals of condolences from the Yorkshire people 
of all classes and grades. 

Molly, as the mother of the new earl, received as many 
of these epistles as Charlotte, and it was among a dozen or 
so of these that she found, on Saturday afternoon a letter 
which was neither a formally worded expression of condo- 
lence nor an undertaker’s business circular. When she 
first read the name signed at the bottom, this communica- 
tion caused her such a hideous shock that she started from 
her chair, and was out of her little sitting-room and at 
the end of the corridor leading to the main staircase be- 
fore she knew what she was about. 

She would perhaps have run out of the house just as she 
was, bareheaded, in her long crimson dressing-gown, into 
the frosty keenness of the December dusk, and thereby 
have created a lot of chatter among the servants, if, as she 
opened the swing-door at the end of the corridor, she had 
not caught sight of Parker, soft-footed, slow, and solemn, 
coming from the direction of the room where Lord Netley 
lay. 

The sight of the man’s ponderous dignity checked her 
reckless advance at once. Instinctively she drew back out 
of sight, and in that moment’s pause recollected the need 
for keeping up appearances. 

She went back to her room, dazed and trembling, but on 
her guard. 

This man’s reappearance just now was a veritable thun- 
derbolt, and what made it so much worse was its utter un- 
expectedness. Nothing in the whole world had been 
farther from her thoughts at this moment than any attack 
from that quarter; it found her utterly unprepared, and 
utterly and entirely defenceless. Abney was in London, 
seeing after the funeral arrangements, and would not be 
back until early on Monday morning, and, in the change 
of circumstances resulting from Lord Netley’s death, she 
hardly knew what course to pursue until she had consulted 
with him. 

And yet she must see this man at once, within the next 
hour, or he would carryout the threat of his letter: march 
into the hall downstairs, summon the whole household 
with a thunderous clanging of the big gong, and denounce 


346 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


her for what he knew her to be — the mistress of the late 
Lionel, Lord Mirfield, the woman who had stood between 
Lord Netley’s eldest son and his lawful wife, who had alien- 
ated his heart from its legitimate object, and made Char- 
lotte’s married life an empty husk, of which she alone 
knew the barrenness and the soul-hunger. 

Molly’s knees shook under her as she thought of the 
horror of the moment, thought of herself standing alone 
in the dimly lit hall, with that circle of shocked faces 
shrinking loathingly away from her neighborhood ; most 
of all she flinched at the thought of the look that would 
come into Charlotte’s beautiful frank eyes, as she heard of 
the involuntary treachery of which Molly had been guilty — • 
the treachery of stealing Lionel’s heart from the woman 
who had loved him so dearly, from the woman who had a 
claim upon his affections long prior to any claim which 
Molly had ever had. Would Charlotte ever forgive this 
treachery, involuntary though it was? Molly believed not. 
Most of all, she would find it hard to forgive if the news 
was hurled at her in this brutal, melodramatic manner, 
without the faintest preparation, by this greedy, ill-condi- 
tioned rascal, who was awaiting Molly now in the drive, 
half-way between the house and the lodge gates. 

If Abney had only been here to go with her, or, better 
still, to go for her, and satisfy the claims of this rapacious 
rufiian, and get him quietly out of the way. 

The unhappy, persecuted little woman’s hands shook so 
horribly that it took her a full half-hour to change her 
shoes and her dress, and wrap herself in along, warm, dark 
cloak ; her fingers fumbled so piteously over the buttons 
and hooks that once she sat down suddenly in the midst of 
fastening her dress, and burst into helpless tears. But she 
was up again in a moment, braced up to her repugnant 
task by the recollection of the consequences which would 
inevitably follow upon her neglect of it. 

This time she stole very quietly along the corridor. She 
heard the children’s happy laughter as she passed the 
nursery door — neither she nor Charlotte had committed the 
folly of trying to impress their baby minds with the solem- 
nity surrounding them; they had not even allowed the 
daylight to be shut out of their gayly papered play-room — 


redhead’s visitor speaks out. 


347 


and she paused a moment before letting the noiseless swing- 
door fall to behind her, as if she were reluctant to shut off 
the sound of their merry baby voices. 

And she had good reason : for when the door was closed, 
and she was alone on the large, dim, silent main staircase, 
the idea seized upon her over- wrought imagination that 
henceforth she was to be shut off from all the joy and 
brightness of her past life; that ahead of her lay a future 
of darkest doom, of which the big, stately, solemn hall be- 
fore her seemed the fitting symbol. 

The fancy grew so strong that her teeth began to chat- 
ter audibly in her head, until she had to hold her shaking 
jaw in both hands to still the clatter ; and in this attitude 
she hurried, with noiseless speed, down the wide stairs and 
through the two halls, into the sharp outer air. 

The sudden change of atmosphere, from the well-warmed 
house to the outside frost, had a good effect on her nerves. 
She waited a moment at the foot of the steps to steady her- 
self, and then, drawing her cloak close across her chest, 
she walked on quietly, out of sight from the main entrance, 
in the direction of the lodge gates. 


CHAPTEK XXVIII. 
redhead’s visitor speaks out. 

The man who was waiting for her seemed to be thor- 
oughly familiar with her figure and walk, judging by his 
quick recognition of her as she approached the tree behind 
which he was hiding in the dusk. 

“Here I am, Mrs. Mirfield,” he said, stepping forward 
into the roadway in front of her. “ I was afraid I might 
let you pass in the dark ; but I need not have worried my- 
self — I should have known your footstep anywhere. You’ve 
been a long time coming. I began to think you had made 
up your mind to drop the little game you’ve been play- 
ing ever since Lord Mirfield’s death, and face out the 
exposure.” 

She caught her breath at his sudden appearance, but 
when she spoke her voice was resolutely still and steady. 


348 


A COVENANT \7iTH THE DEAD. 


“Shall you keep me long?” she said, “because we shall 
be seen here. If this compromise, which your letter sug- 
gests, is likely to take long to arrange, we had better go 
somewhere more out of the way.” 

“ Very good!” he answered. “ You know the anchorage 
here better than me. I’ll follow your piloting.” 

She turned at once and led the way, by the narrow side 
path and through the gate with the intricate latch, to the 
ladies’ lawn. She went on, round the far side of the open 
space, and did not stop until she had gone some distance 
down the shrubbery path, in the direction of the ha-ha. 

“I think we are safe enough here,” she said, “but 
should be very glad if you would be as quick as you can 
with what you have to say, Maxon. I don’t want the 
whole household to find out my absence. Lord Netley is 
lying dead in the house ; they would wonder at my being 
out at all at such a time.” 

“ And you was always given to studying appearances, I 
remember,” he answered. “ That’s what took the whole 
crew in so thoroughly. I can tell you I was that aston- 
ished when I found out the truth that I could hardly be- 
lieve my eyes. You’ve been extraordinary clever over this 
business, Mrs. Mirfield, I will say that for you. I reckon 
myself a rather smart hand, but you’ve had me fairly, and 
I don’t mind confessing to it. I never had the least sus- 
picion of you till about six weeks ago, when I came down 
here to ask a little help from you ; and when I found out 
your little game, you might literally have knocked me 
over with a feather.” 

“Never mind about all that now,” she said, and the 
elf or t it cost her to speak patiently was apparent in the 
labored quietness of her voice ; “ you have found me out, 
and that is enough. Let me hear what this compromise 
is, and tell me as quickly as possible.” 

“ Did Lady Mirfield tell you she had seen me, that time 
about six weeks ago, and given me ten pounds? When I 
went back to the inn, after that talk with her, and found 
out that there had been another Lady Mirfield here, all 
the time that you and my young lord were cruising about 
the coast in that happy fashion, I was that flabbergasted 
that I couldn’t see my way clear at all. Of course I set to 


redhead’s visitor speaks out. 


349 


work making inquiries at once, and I’ve heard that you 
are passing here as the widow of the second son ; but it 
passes me altogether to understand how you have managed 
it so neat. I wonder what you did with the real woman? 
I’ve found out that Lord Mirfield had no son by his wife, 
and I see your little game plainly enough — you want his 
illegitimate boy to inherit the title and the property 
Well, an earldom and a place like this ’ere is worth a good 
price anyway.” 

Molly moaned a little and moved her feet impatiently on 
the path. They could not see one another’s faces in there, 
under the shadow of the high laurels and acubas; but one 
could imagine the torture on hers from the sound of her 
voice when she spoke again. 

“ I wish you would say exactly what you want, and let 
me know the worst.” 

“ Well, the truth is that I can’t tell you just to a hun- 
dred pounds or so what I do want. There is a hotel at 
Leeds that I want to buy; it will be in the market shortly, 
but the price hasn’t been published 3"et.” 

Molly laughed, a queer little hysterical laugh, which con- 
siderably discomposed her companion. 

“ I don’t know much about the prices of hotels,” she 
said, “ but certainly I should not think you have put too 
low a value upon your silence. Suppose I tell you, Maxon, 
that what you ask is impossible? I know pretty well how 
I am left under Lord Netley’s will. This place is to be 
kept up properly for my boy and me during his minority, 
but I have nothing whatever to do with the expenditure ; 
that is entirely in the hands of the trustees. I have five 
hundred a year left to me for my life, and that is the only 
money that I have any control over.” 

“ Well, then, I call it a damned beggarly arrangement,” 
he ejaculated, and she began to shake again at the change 
in his tone. His disappointment was making him savage 
and reckless. “ I shall have to carry my goods elsewhere, 
that’s all. If you can’t pay me my price, perhaps Lady 
Mirfield can. I’ve heard that she is a tremendously rich 
woman in her own right. I expect she’d be willing to give 
a good deal to keep this scandal against her dead husband 
from oozing out.” 


350 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD, 


Molly groaned again, and rocked herself to and fro, with 
her arms clasped tightly across her breast. 

“ I should advise you to think it over a bit,’* he said. 

“ Think it over?” she echoed. “ What is the use of 
thinking it over? Can you squeeze blood from a stone? 
I have told you the absolute truth about my circum- 
stances.” 

“ Can’t you square the trustees?” he asked. “ Can’t you 
get them to let you have four years or so of your income 
down in a lump? Tell them straight out that it is some 
secret of your past life that you want to keep quiet. They 
won’t be very surprised; everybody about here knows that 
the second son married an actress. They will think it is 
some scrape connected with your theatrical life that you 
want to hide. At any rate I should say it was worth think- 
ing over.” 

“How long will you give me to think it over?” said 
Molly, and there was a new note in her voice which he took 
for a sign of yielding. 

“ I’ll give you till to-morrow night to make up you! 
mind whether you will try to get the money,” he answered; 
“ and if you decide to try. I’ll give you a clear fortnight 
afterward to work the trustees. I don’t want to be unrea^ 
sonable, nor yet hard-hearted.” 

She thought a moment before she spoke again. 

“ Give me until Monday night to make up my mind,” 
she said then ; and he, in his mean craftiness, jumped at 
once to the conclusion that there was some stronger motive 
behind the request than the mere delay of twenty-four 
hours, and decided on the spot to deny her what she asked. 

“No,” he said, “I can’t do that. I want to get back 
to Leeds by an early train on Monday. I’ll give you till 
this time to-morrow night, and no longer. If you haven’t 
made up your mind by then I shall take my own course, 
and do the best I can for myself elsewhere.” 

“ By which you mean Lady Mirfield?” 

“Never you mind what I mean,” he returned know- 
ingly. “ I am giving you the first chance; if you don’t 
choose to take it, it is no concern of yours what I do after- 
ward. And look here, Mrs. Mirfield,” he added, as if 
a fresh thought had but just occurred to him, “ don’t you 


redhead’s visitor speaks out. 351 

go trying any tricks to frighten me, or you’ll repent it. 
If you go raking up that old nonsense about the plate that 
went missing off the yacht, or anything of that kind— if 
you try to get rid of me in any way, I swear to you by the 
living Lord that I will advertise the facts of this very 
pretty little affair far and wide. As things stand now, it 
is possible that, even if you won’t raise the money, it may 
suit Lady Mirfield’s book to have the story kept quiet ; but 
if you’ve got any plan in your head for getting me shut up 
and out of the way, I advise you to drop it. So surely as 
anything of that kind takes place. I’ll never rest till your 
name is in every gossiping society paper in the country, 
and so I give you fair warning.” 

“I was not thinking of it,” she said when he paused, 
breathless with the hurry of his speech. “ I had forgotten 
all aboud the missing silver ; and in any case it is not 
likely, unless I meant to confess to everything, that I 
should let people know that I am aware of what took place 
on Lord Mirfield’s yacht.” 

“And that you don’t mean to do?” he insinuated, half 
interrogatively. 

And she repeated : 

“And that I don’t mean to do just now, certainly.” 

As she spoke she was arranging in her own mind how 
she should keep this hideous secret at all costs from Lotte, 
until she and Abney were married. It would be easier for 
Lotte to forgive her when they were no longer under the 
same roof — for Abney had already decided upon a resi- 
dence in London during the greater part of the year. 
When Lotte had a very happy home of her own, of which 
she held the undivided sovereignty, and a husband who 
almost made up, by his all-pervading love, for the cold dis- 
appointment of her first married life — when she had fairly 
realized her own great happiness, and knew that Molly 
was living a lonely, empty life in the big Yorkshire house, 
surely she would find it easier to forgive her this great in- 
voluntary wrong. For the certainty was coming home to 
her now that, sooner or later, her secret would have to be 
known. Indeed, there was a wonder in her mind that she 
had been able to maintain the position she had taken up 
as long as she had. 


352 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


If she could but gain a little time, was the one overpow- 
ering thought in her mind as she stood there in the 
shadow of the bushes, driving her bargain with the man 
who had sprung up, like an avenging spirit, out of her 
most unhappy past. But, metaphorically, his hand was 
at her throat and his grip in her purse, and it was more 
than her courage was equal to, to plump out a downright 
refusal to his request. 

And so the poor, badgered, bewildered little creature 
yielded to his demand for another interview on the Sunday 
evening, and gave some sort of an assent by implication to 
his injunction to make up her mind as to what she meant 
to do between now and then, though she knew well enough 
that nothing that was likely to help her to a decision 
could possibly happen in the next twenty-four hours. 

And having brought her to this pitch of subihission he 
allowed her to return to the house. 

All that evening she and Lotte and the two children 
spent in her little sitting-room. Dinner was served to the 
two ladies up there, and the babies were made happy by a 
pudding prepared expressly for them. After the mites had 
gone to bed the two women sat, on either side of the fire, 
and talked ; and the talk grew more confidential in that 
snug little chamber than would have been possible in the 
large, handsome rooms downstairs. 

And, for some unknown reason, Lotte spoke more of her 
first husband to-night than, in Molly’s knowledge of her, 
she had ever spoken before. 

“ His father never guessed ever so faintly at the want of 
sympathy between us,” she said, “and it will always be a 
source of comfort to me to remember that he never sus- 
pected it. It was strange that it should have been so, you 
know, Molly, because I simply worshipped poor Lionel at 
that time; and it would have been only natural if I had 
won a little affection in return. But I did not — never a 
shred, my dear. Looking back now I sometimes wonder 

if ” She paused and looked across at Molly’s tired, 

patient little face, as if she wanted a sign of encourage- 
ment to go on ; but she did not get it, and she had to finish 
her sentence without. “ It seems dreadful to hint at slander 
against the dead, but I can’t help sometimes wondering if — 


redhead’s visitor speaks out. 353 

there was another woman in the case. It’s an awful 
thing to say, I know, but Lionel was naturally of such a 
clinging, gentle disposition that I don’t see how else to ac- 
count for his coldness to me.” 

And Molly listened patiently, thinking her own sad 
thoughts meanwhile. 

Lionel had not been cold to her ; his love had been ca- 
pricious, subject to fits of hot, unreasonable anger, fol- 
lowed by periods of childish estrangement, but cold he had 
never been. 

Poor Lionel, and poor Charlotte, and poor Molly! If 
Lionel had been just a little stronger-minded, or the poor 
old man who was lying upstairs just a little less masterful! 

But what they had to reckon with now was events as 
they had happened, not as they might have, and Molly 
found it very hard to make up her mind what to do for 
the best. 

And then, on the Sunday morning, came what she hoped 
and believed was a bit of good news. 

Abney was coming back that afternoon instead of the 
next moaning. The thought lifted a whole world of trouble 
off her shoulders. She could trust Abney to work any kind 
of incredible wonder on her behalf. Let him once have an 
interview with this old steward of Lord Mirfield’s, and 
Molly believed she would never be troubled by the disrep- 
utable ruffian again. But did she dare to wait for him? 

Her appointment with Maxon was for half-past five, in 
the same place as last night, and Abney could not reach 
the Fallow until half-past six. Did she dare to risk put- 
ting that churlish brute into a rage for an hour? Surely 
he could not do much harm in that space of time ! 

And then she did so heartily dread another interview 
with the obnoxious wretch. She shrank so repugnantly 
from the repetition of his coarse familiarity and his detest- 
able innuendoes, and at last it ended in a decision to trust 
to chance. 

Maxon would wait for her at the appointed place until 
six o’clock certainly, and once let Abney reach home be- 
fore Maxon carried out his threat of exposure, and she 
could trust her friend to manage the whole affair just as he 
chose. 


23 


354 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


And the event would have fully justified her trust in her 
champion and protector but for one trifling consideration — 
Lady Mirfield’s impatience to see her sweetheart after 
their two days’ separation ; an impatience of which she was 
secretly a little ashamed. 

As it drew on toward six o’clock Molly made the excuse 
of dressing — though of course they were not dressing dur- 
ing this period of close seclusion — to get away from Lady 
Mirfield’s room, so that she and Abney might get their 
greetings over in peace. And the moment that Charlotte 
was sure Molly was safely off, she wrapped herself up and 
made a bee-line for the lodge gates, meaning to walk back 
to the house with her lover. 

But, after all, Abney Garth reached the main entrance 
without being stopped en route. 

The side path which led direct to the ladies’ lawn from 
the main drive branched off about half-way between the 
house and the lodge gates, and as Charlotte drew near the 
narrow opening in the box hedge she was startled by seeing 
a man spring suddenly out of the shadow just in front of 
her. The next moment she was genuinely frightened, for 
he strode toward her and said, in a voice that was savage 
for all its careful avoidance of any noise : 

“ By God! madam, you have come just in the very nick of 
time, for I was going straight up to the house this minute 1” 

“ What do you mean?” gasped Charlotte, pressing close 
up against the high yew hedge, in downright terror. 

But at the first sound of her voice the approaching man 
stopped dead, and waited at a yard’s distance from her. 

“It is Lady Mirfield,” he said, with a sudden modera- 
tion of tone. 

“ Yes, it is Lady Mirfield,” she answered. “ And I think 
you are the man who claimed to have been steward on 
Lord Mirfield’s yacht. What are you doing again here?” 

“ I’ll tell you that presently,” he returned, “ if you will 
first be kind enough to tell me where your sister-in-law is 
at this present moment, and what she is doing?” 

“ What do you mean by your questions?” she asked, im- 
pressed by something she could not fathom in the man’s 
manner. “ What have Mrs. Mirfield’s doings to do with 
you?” 


redhead’s visitor speaks out. 355 

“ I’ll tell you that also, presently,” he said again. “ But 
I want to know, first, if there is any good reason for her 
breaking her appointment with me to-night. Is she ill?” 

“No.” 

“ Is she in the house?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And has no intention of coming out?” 

“ She left me five minutes ago to dress for dinner. ” 

He swore a horrible oath under his breath. 

“ By Him who made us!” he said, “ I’ll teach the little 
concubine to put her tongue in her cheek at me.” 

At the first profane word Charlotte half turned toward 
the way she had come. 

“No, no, my lady,” he muttered, moving quickly for- 
ward so as to put himself between her and the house, 
“ don’t be in such a hurry, please. Since the young per- 
son who calls herself Mrs. Arthur Mirfield is too great a 
lady to keep an appointment with a man of my sort — an 
honest man, for all his misfortunes, mind you — I’ll ask 
you to kindly be deputy for her, and listen to me for five 
minutes or so. Maybe, though, she sent you out here on 
purpose to hear what I’ve got to tell you? Perhaps things 
have turned out too much for her, and she’s thrown up 
the sponge.” 

“ Will you let me pass?” demanded Charlotte, measuring 
the distance between him and herself as well as the obscur- 
ity would allow of, and wondering whether she could get 
past him with a rush. “ Will you let me pass, or am I to 
scream for help?” 

“Neither the one nor the other,” he said. “ You’ll lis- 
ten willingly enough when I’ve asked you a simple ques- 
tion.” He drew a step nearer, as if anxious to insure her 
hearing every word of his next sentence. “ Did you ever 
hear anything about the lady companion as Lord Mirfield 
had with him on board his yacht for more’n three years 
before his death?” 

Utter silence. The chimes of Cramlingford church 
striking the quarter after six break across the Sunday still- 
ness, and he goes on again. He would like to see her face, 
but that is impossible, and he has to continue without be- 
ing able to judge how she is likely to take his disclosures. 


356 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ And did you never hear of the little hoy that was born 
at an out-of-the-way little village, not far from New Quay, 
on the Cornish coast? Until that time when I saw you 
here before — the time that you gave me that ten-pound 
note — I was always under the impression that the lady on 
board the yacht was Lord Mirfield’s wife. I thought the 
marriage was a secret one, and that his lordship was des- 
perately afraid of his father finding out about it, hut I 
certainly did believe that the woman was his wife, until I 
came here six weeks ago and saw the real Lady Mirfield.” 

Still Charlotte says nothing. What, indeed, is there for 
her to say? A terrible, ghastly suspicion is creeping into 
her mind — a suspicion so agonizing in its possibilities of 
foulest treachery, that she feels as if her very heart were 
being plucked out of her body by the roots. AVhy has this 
man jumped in this abrupt fashion from his abuse of 
Molly to these reminiscences of Lionel’s yachting life? It 
is a question that she keeps on asking of herself over and 
over again, and it is a question to which, with all her in- 
nate bravery, she does not dare seek the answer. It is 
there, in her mind, but she has not the courage to face it. 

“ I dare say you know what I am coming to by now,” the 
man’s drink-sodden voice goes on. “ You remember that 
I told you before that, when I saw you and your sister-in- 
law walking together in the village, and I was told you 
were Lady and Mrs. Mirfield, I concluded that the little 
one with the brown hair was the eldest son’s widow and 
you were the other’s. You see, now, how I came to make 
the mistake, don’t you? The likeness between the present 
so-called Honorable Mrs. Arthur Mirfield, and the woman 
who passed as Lord Mirfield’s wife among the crew of the 
yacht is so astonishing that I shouldn’t have the faintest 
hesitation in going into any court of law in the land and 
swearing that, to the best of my knowledge, they was one 
and the same person.” 

And this is the woman Charlotte has taken to her heart 
of hearts; this is the woman she has admitted to her soul’s 
holiest of holies, who has been in very deed as her other 
self ever since those earliest days of her bereavement! 

In these first moments of the crushing blow, it does not 
occur to her to wonder how this woman has been able to 


redhead’s visitor speaks out. 357 

maintain her ghastly imposture all this time, any more 
than it occurs to her that the man’s story may be a fabrica- 
tion from beginning to end. She is too stunned, too over- 
whelmed by the horror that has fallen upon her, to do 
more than grasp the awful fact itself. Molly, her brave 
little comforter, her bright, happy little companion, her 
sweet little sympathizer, is nothing but a lying, cheating, 
swindling impostor, who has wronged her in just that one 
way which a woman finds the hardest of all to forgive ! 

Truly this pit of horrors that she has stumbled into un- 
awares is a ghastly and gruesome place to find herself in. 

In her misery she begins to picture an idyllic life on 
board that beautiful yacht, a life which in actual fact 
never existed at all — as poor little patient, forbearing 
Molly could have informed her — and these imaginings so 
absorb her thoughts that she almost screams when she is 
brought back to the present by a direct question from her 
companion. 

“ And now I’ve told you, what do you mean to do about 
it?” he asks. 

“God knows!” she moans, with a dry sob of agony; 
“ God alone knows ! ” 

“ It’s quite in your hands up to now, you see, my lady,” 
continues the crafty scoundrel, a little dashed by her quiet 
way of taking it — he had rather expected either hysterics 
or denunciation ; this silent suffering is a thing he wots 
not of. He had reckoned on playing on her feelings, but 
if she does not feel it much, how can he expect to make a 
good bargain for his silence — “ in your hands and mine, 
and — and that one other person’s, and if your fancy is to 
keep the whole thing quiet, and get rid of the — the other 
person, without taking the whole world into your confi- 
dence, you have only to say so and the thing is done. And, 
when you come to think of it, it wouldn’t be a pleasant 
thing, would it now, to know that everybody’s tongue was 
wagging over the ” 

“Oh, hush!” she cried quickly, “hush!” and added in- 
stantly, as the sound of wheels was heard beyond the bend 
in the drive, “ Hark ! there is something coming ! Stand 
up close under the hedge; I don’t want to be seen.” 

He did as she bid him, drawing well back out of the way 


358 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


of the advancing dog-cart, which dashed past them and on 
toward the house. 

It was Abney. Charlotte heard his voice in conversation 
with the groom, and at once she formed the purpose of lay- 
ing the whole thing before him, and leaving the manage- 
ment in his hands. 

“ You must go now,” she said. “ I cannot tell yet what 
I shall do about what you have told me. It has come upon 
me so suddenly that I can’t make up my mind what is the 
best thing to do. You must go away, and hold your 
tongue until you hear from me. I will send you a line of 
some kind in the morning, to the inn, but you must prom- 
ise me that, in the mean time, you will not say a word to a 
human being of what you have told me to-night.” 

“ I’ll promise that willing enough,” he answered. “ It’s 
not likely I’d go to spoil my own market. The better the 
secret is kept the more valuable my silence is. I’ll keep 
quiet enough, never you fear. My name is Maxon, my 
lady, Henry Maxon, and I’ll leave word with the landlord 
that any letters that come are to be brought to me without 
a minute’s delay, and so make sure of attending to your 
wishes as early as possible.” 

She was evidently unconscious of the change in his man- 
ner. She had as little thought to spare for his cringing 
servility as she had had for his paltry bullying. 

“ I will be sure to send to you in the morning,” she said, 
and moved on toward the house, leaving him bowing and 
murmuring obsequious “ Good-nights ” in the middle of 
the drive. 

He was so very servile because he was already beginning 
to doubt the wisdom of his own conduct. In the first furi- 
ous gust of rage against Mrs. Mirfield, when he found she 
did not mean to keep her appointment with him, he had 
gone a little farther than prudence dictated. If he had 
been wise he would only have whetted Lady Mirfield’s curi- 
osity in this first interview, and made his own terms for 
the full disclosure. As things stood now, his only chance 
of making money lay in her desire to keep the thing quiet. 
If she decided to let things take their own course he would 
find himself out in the cold with a vengeance. He was 
thoroughly out of temper with everybody and everything 


redhead’s visitor speaks out. 359 

by the time he got back to the inn, and ready to quarrel 
with his own shadow. 

As he came along the high street of the village he saw 
Mr. Eedhead standing in the open doorway of the inn, 
apparently watching for him ; and to his easily alarmed 
ear there was something rather disquieting in the “ Here 
he is! ” with which the landlord greeted his appearance. 

For a moment he thought it might serve his purpose 
better to turn short round and go back the way he had just 
come, and cut across the dark, lonely park to the railway 
station at little Croxmore, and go straight back to Leeds 
that night. But the next instant he involuntarily altered 
his mind, for a short, thick-set man shot out of the inn 
door from behind Mr. Bedhead, and faced him on the 
pathway of the village street ; and for all his iron-gray 
hair, there was an air of bustle and decision about the 
small man’s movements which seemed to suggest a consid- 
erable amount of muscular power. 

“ Good-afternoon, Mr. What’s-your-name,” said this en- 
ergetic person, stopping short in front of him. “ I am de- 
lighted to meet you! I’ve been wanting to make your 
acquaintance this long time past. Our mutual friend 
here, Mr. Redhead, has spoken so highly of you, that it has 
been a matter of great regret to me not to meet you before. 
How are you? I hope you have had a pleasant walk.” 

Mr. Maxon was too much taken aback by the assurance 
of this greeting to do anything but stand stock-still and 
look at his new self-made acquaintance. 

“ Got the advantage of you, haven’t I?” said Clem, put- 
ting his hands in his pockets and looking very straight at 
him. “ I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your name, but 
I know something a good deal more to the purpose — I know 
the business you are down here on, for I happen to be down 
on the same business myself.” 

“Do you, though?” replied the other, with a would-be 
touch of irony. 

“Yes, I do, though,” echoed Clem, with perfect temper; 
“ and if it hadn’t been for a downright piece of bad-luck, 
by which I lost last night’s mail, you and I might have 
worked the thing together. Have you driven a good bar- 
gain for yourself with the little lady?” 


360 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


Without a word Maxon turned sharp round on his heel 
and walked back the way he had come till they reached a 
deserted part of the village, beyond earshot from the inn 
door, where Redhead was still standing. 

“ Now, then, say out what you mean,” he said. 

“I mean,” replied Borthwicke, “I mean Mrs. — Arthur 
Mirfield.” 

The pause before the Christian name was cleverly man- 
aged — just long enough for his companion to understand 
if the shot was correct, and not long enough to arouse his 
suspicions unless they were already pointed in that direc- 
tion. For Clem had not succeeded in thoroughly quelling 
the impulse of pity which had seized upon him at the dis- 
covery of Molly’s real identity, and he was not actually en- 
joying the notion of hauling her down from the position 
in which she had established herself. But, his compassion 
notwithstanding, it was more than he was capable of to 
stand aside and let another man bleed his nephew’s estate 
of untold sums as hush-money. If the little woman was to 
be ousted, he felt it was his duty, as George’s legal repre- 
sentative, to take a part in the process. 

“ I mean,” he said, “ I mean Mrs. — Arthur Mirfield.” 

And when the other repeated the little sentence — mean- 
ing pause included — “Just so; I mean Mrs. — Arthur Mir- 
field,” Clem knew he had not been mistaken, and resumed 
the conversation in a less cautious key. 

“ I guessed from what Redhead said that you had an ap- 
pointment to keep with some one to-night. Was it with 
her, and what understanding have you come to? ” 

“ Well, blow me if you ain’t a cool hand,” returned 
Maxon, “ to expect me to take you into my confidence in 
that fashion.” 

“ Oh, well, you can do as you like about speaking,” said 
Borthwicke. “ I only wanted to know how far you had 
gone, don’t you see you know, because I may as well tell 
you at once that, if your game is money, you won’t get a 
brass penny.” 

“ Who’ll prevent me?” 

“I shall.” 

“ And who the devil are you? ” 


redhead’s visitor speaks out. 


361 


“ The nearest of kin to the next lawfully begotten — 
lawfully begotten — heir.”" 

“If you mean Lady Mirfield’s child,” said Maxon, after 
a slight pause, “ I think you’re out in your reckoning. 
She’s inclined to hold her tongue for the sake of her dead 
husband.” 

“So you’ve got at her already, have you !” exclaimed 
Clem. “ Well, I’m sorry, for the other poor little woman’s 
sake; at the same time you’ve removed my last scruple, 
and left me free to go ahead as fast as I like. No, Mr. 
Thingamy, I don’t mean Lady Mirfield’s child. Lady 
Mirfield’s child being a girl, and the Netley title descend- 
ing only through heirs-male, it passes over her head to 
Lord Netley’s nephew, who happens to be my nephew also ; 
and it is in his interest, he being at present out of England, 
that I mean to take this matter up, and prevent you from 
fingering a farthing of hush-money out of the Netley es- 
tate. If you had not been in such a blessed hurry to tell 
your story to the very last person in the world who ought 
to have known it, I might have held back even now; but 
the mischief is done, and my silence won’t mend matters 
a bit, and so, don’t you see you know, your poor bit of 
spite comes back on your own head.” 

“It was her own fault,” muttered the other, savagely 
sullen under his disappointment. “ Why didn’t she keep 
her appointment and meet me? She knew I wasn’t the 
sort of man to stand a snub like that; she’s seen me often 
enough in a temper on board the boat.” 

“Oh, a member of the yacht’s crew, were you?” said 
Clem. “ I begin to understand.” 

“ I was steward and caterer the whole time Lord Netley 
had the yacht. ” 

“ Ah ! Well, I’m sorry for you, Mr. Steward, for your 
little game is bowled out this time and no mistake. Good- 
night! The next time you know a woman’s secret don’t 
let your nasty spite spoil your market.” 

“ Stop a bit,” said Maxon, as he moved away; “ are you 
going straight on with this thing to-night?” 

“ Yes, my beauty, as straight on as I can. I’m going to 
beg a bit of dinner from my sister — the mother of my 


362 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


nephew — and afterward I’m going to carry her straight on 
up to the house, and have the whole thing out in camera 
to-night, so that the poor little woman may have time to 
clear out of the way in the morning before the family law- 
yer hears my story, and comes down on her like a hundred 
of bricks.” 

“ Well, I think I should like to be present at that little 
family meeting, if you’ve no objection? ” 

“Not the least in the world,” returned Clem, “so long 
as you don’t ask me to stand sponsor for your presence.” 

“Just now you spoke about our working the thing to- 
gether,” said Maxon insinuatingly. 

“ Quite so ; but that was before I knew you had betrayed 
the little woman into the hands of the wife. You’ve done 
all the harm you possibly can, and I wish you joy of your 
brew. If you think I’m going to claim part or parcel in 
that business you’re confoundedly mistaken. And as for 
taking you up to the house to-night under the shadow of 
my wing, why. I’ll see you at blazes first, don’t you see 
you know!” 

With which elegant peroration Mr. Borthwicke took his 
departure, leaving the ex-steward, an embodiment of de- 
feated rage, in the middle of the silent street. And he 
was still standing there when Clem looked back from Mrs. 
Mirfield’s garden gate, obviously at a loss as to what his 
next step should be. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 
chaelotte’s kighteous eesentment. 

When Charlotte got back to the house, aflame from 
head to foot with righteous resentment against the woman 
who had wronged her wifehood first and violated the 
sanctity of her home and heart afterward, quivering from 
the terrible ordeal she had gone through, burning with a 
just sense of her great wrongs, and wounded to the very 
core of her being by the thought that it was Molly — the one 
woman in all the world for whom she had ever felt a real 
tender affection — who had perpetrated this basest of treach- 


charlotte’s righteous resentment. 


363 


eries against her; when she entered the hall, shaking so 
much with the weight and burden of her manifold emo- 
tions that she could hardly walk steadily, the first person 
her glance fell upon, warming her dainty feet in front of 
the leaping log flames, and looking even sweeter and more 
flower-like than ever, was Molly herself. 

Charlotte’s feelings, as a rule, were all so honest and 
outspoken that her first impulse was to walk straight up 
to the little creature and lay her accusation before her ; 
and she would have done it but for a sudden deadly qualm 
that came upon her at the thought of the white, wild, 
guilty fright that would leap into the other’s face as she 
listened. 

It is one of the inevitable shortcomings of a generous 
temperament like Charlotte’s that it feels everything in 
extremes, and just as she had loved Molly with all her 
heart, so did she now shrink from her with an aversion 
which left no room for any other feeling — half measures 
either for good or evil were impossibilities to her. 

“ You have been out?” said Molly in considerable sur- 
prise, turning at the sound of her heels on the polished 
floor. “ Abney wondered a little at your not being here. 
He has gone to his room.” 

Charlotte answered never a word. She would have hated 
herself if she had spoken pleasantly while she was feeling 
so bitter, and she wanted to take Abney’s advice on the 
matter before bringing things to a crisis. 

As she crossed the hall toward the foot of the staircase 
her silence made Molly turn to look at her more closely, 
and as their eyes met the little woman took her foot ofl the 
fender-rail, and went over toward her. 

“What has happened, Lotte?” she asked. “My dear, 
what are you looking at me like that for? Oh, Lotte!” 
she broke off, with a terrified catch in her breath, as a sud- 
den thought darted into her mind, “ I— I think I know— 
what it is. Somebody — has been speaking to you about me. ” 

Lady Mirfield said nothing, but as she turned to look 
at Molly such an expression came into her eyes — an expres- 
sion in which scorn and misery fought one another for the 
upper hand — that Molly shrank back against the baluster 
with a heartbroken little cry. 


364 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ Oh, Lotte !” she said. “ Oh, Lotte, my dear, my dear ! ” 

It seemed as if that was all she could say just then; hut, 
when Lady Mirfield made as if to speak, her words came 
back to her. 

“No,” she cried, under her breath, with a quick little 
gesture for silence, “ no, don’t say what is in your heart 
just now, I beg of you! Wait until you have heard both 
sides of the question before you pass judgment on me. I 
admit I have done you a great wrong in creeping into your 
home under false pretences, but it seemed to me at the 
time that I did you a less wrong that way than the other. 
There are extenuating circumstances, Charlotte, as I think 
you will be the first to admit when you. have heard the 
story all through.” 

“Extenuating circumstances!” echoed Charlotte, in a 
voice that rang and quivered with the intolerable burden 
of her wrongs — a voice which Molly could not recognize at 
all with that thrill of bitterness in it, and at which she 
shrank back another step or two, with such suffering in 
her eyes that Charlotte must have pitied her if she could 
have spared thought for anything but her own misery. 
“Extenuating circumstances!” she said again in that keen, 
piercing voice. “ All our married life you stood between 
my husband and me, and when he is dead you come here, 
into the home of the wife you have cheated once, and worm 
yourself into her affections till you make her love you too; 
and then, when at last your infamy is discovered, you begin 
to babble about extenuating circumstances. As if any- 
thing in the world could extenuate such conduct!” 

She threw up her hands with an action which expressed 
her utter inability to understand such depths of treachery, 
and turned and went on up the stairs, leaving Molly a 
statue of despair at the foot. 

And yet after all this, at the sound of the gong she came 
down, quiet and self-possessed, to take her place at the 
dinner-tahle. Perhaps she half expected that Molly would 
absent herself after what had taken place, but she made no 
sign when she found her already in the dining-room ; and 
Abney, coming in a moment behind her, saw nothing very 
unusual in her manner when he went round to shake hands 
with her before taking his own seat. 


charlotte’s righteous resentment. 365 


The conversation during dinner was chiefly of the de- 
tails of Tuesday’s ceremonial; hut dry as the subject was, 
and conventional as all dinner-table talk of necessity is, the 
knowledge gradually came home to Abney during the 
course of the meal that there was an indescribable chill in 
the social atmosphere. Glayety was not to be expected, of 
course, just now; but he felt that this fact in itself did not 
account for the air of constraint which he felt rather than 
saw in the manner of the two ladies. 

He waited with what patience he could until the depart- 
ure of the servants gave him a chance to speak out. 

“If I did not know that it was almost impossible,” he 
began, as soon as the door had closed gently behind the 
butler’s majestic figure, “ I should fancy that you two best 
of friends had quarrelled while I have been away.” 

He paused, and Molly looked across at Charlotte as if 
expecting her to speak, and then, seeing she meant to keep 
silent, spoke herself. 

“ Not quarrelled, Abney,” she said gently. “ You know 
too much of my affection for Lady ” she checked her- 

self in the middle of the formal address and substituted 
the Christian name — “ my affection for Charlotte, to think 
any misunderstanding between us could ever develop into 
a quarrel.” 

“Well, that is just what I said,” he answered, with a 
smile at her anxious face, “ and that is just what makes 
me so curious to know what is wrong between you.” 

Molly hesitated still, and glanced again at Lotte’s beau- 
tiful, indignant face. 

“ I wish you would tell Abney,” she said. 

“No,” answered Charlotte, “I can’t trust myself. Tell 
him yourself, and make the most of your extenuating cir- 
cumstances.” 

At the concentrated bitterness of the reply Abney 
glanced quickly from one to the other. 

“ Is it anything serious?” be asked. “ Has the truth 
come out, Molly?” 

“ Some of it,” she answered. 

“And Charlotte thinks she has cause of complaint 
against you?” 

“ She does not know all, Abney.” 


3G6 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“ Then she must know at once. Why did you not tell 
her? How did she find out?” 

“ I think she must have seen the man who was steward 
on hoard the yacht. He has been here again during your 
absence. I have seen him. I was to have met him again 
to-night, hut when I heard you were coming home I left 
it for you to arrange. Charlotte was out before dinner, 
and I think she must have seen him, because when she 
came in she accused me of ” 

“What?” asked Abney, as she paused. 

“ Of stealing her husband’s love from her.” 

“Ah!” He got up from the table and pushed his chair 
back in a way betokening sudden resolution. “ Shall we 
go up to your snuggery, Molly, or shall we go to my study? 
This thing has got to be thoroughly cleared up at last, lit- 
tle friend, and we had better go somewhere where we are 
sure of not being interrupted for an hour.” 

“ Come to my room,” she said. “ Will you come there, 
Charlotte, or would you rather go to Abney’s?” 

Charlotte signified she did not mind which, and rose, 
looking as if she were not quite sure if she was awake or 
dreaming. Abney had not shown the least indignation 
or even astonishment at Molly’s allusions. What did it 
mean? Something more than she knew of yet — that much 
was certain. 

As Abney opened the door for them to leave the room 
the house-bell clanged out on the stillness of the night. 

“ What can that be at this time of night?” he said, push- 
ing the door to again and listening to the servant’s foot- 
steps passing down the hall. 

“It is he — Maxon — the man I spoke of !” cried Molly, 
as a voice was heard inquiring for Lady Mirfield. 

“ Oh, is it?” said Abney, with a grim tightening of his 
lips. “ Well, I think I’ll interview tliat gentleman myself,” 
and he went out, leaving the two women listening inside 
the door. 

By the time he reached the outer hall there was another 
arrival; just inside the door, looking frightened and un- 
comfortable, stood Mrs. George Mirfield, accompanied by 
a small man, with iron-gray hair, whom Abney did not re- 
member seeing before. This short gentleman wa^ doing 


charlotte’s righteous resentment. 367 


all the talking, and evidently browbeating the tall, shabby, 
sallow-faced man in a pilot coat, whom Abney recognized 
as the ex-steward he had paid off with the rest of the 
yacht’s crew at Lord Mirfield’s death. 

“ So you have had the impertinence to intrude yourself 
on our family gathering after all,” the small man was say- 
ing. “ Did you wait outside +.bp ^ntil you saw us 
coming? I’m not going to nave you standing by while I 
make my statement and claim, don’t you see you know, so 
I don’t see what good you’ve done by stealing a march 
upon me. Who is at the head of affairs here just now?” 
he asked, turning to the astonished footman, who was 
holding the door open with an air of protest. 

“Mr. Garth has returned from London this evening, 
sir,” the man answered, looking over the questioner’s head 
at Mrs. Mirfield, with a glance which seemed to ask if she 
was responsible for the appearance of this loud-voiced, 
bumptious little person. “ If you have called upon busi- 
ness I dare say he will see you. The ladies are not receiv- 
ing anybody just now.” 

Garth went quietly forward toward Mrs. Mirfield, won- 
dering who the unknown might be. 

“Charlotte is still in the dining-room,” he said; “will 
you go to her? Did you want to see me, sir?” 

“Well, I ain’t particular,” said Clem, giving his hat a 
sideway tip and looking the new arrival over critically. 
“ I suppose you are Mr. Garth?” 

Abney bowed. 

“ Well, then, I’ve got something to say concerning the 
state of things here, and since it seems that you are the 
person left in charge I may as well say it to you.” 

“ I hardly understand why a stranger should choose such 
an extraordinary time to ” 

“It is my brother, Mr. Garth,” put in Mrs. Mirfield, 
trying not to show how far from proud she was of the rela- 
tionship ; “ Mr. Borthwicke, he has come up here to-night to 
look after my son’s interests. I think it will be better for 
all parties if we go somewhere where we can have our talk 
out in quietness.” 

“Assuredly,” returned Abney smoothly. “And this 
other gentleman, Mr. Borthwicke, is he to come too? Has 


368 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


he also something to say concerning the state of affairs 
here?” 

“ In any case I’ll come too, if you please, sir,” said 
Maxon, with a look which was meant to he alarming. 
“ I’ve had interviews already with Lady Mirfield and Mrs. 
Mirfield on the subject, and I know they would prefer not 
to have me shut out of this one.” 

Abney signified his submission to this arrangement, and 
led the way back to the dining-room. If he could but 
have had ten minutes to prepare Charlotte for what was 
coming, he would have felt comparatively comfortable. 

The ladies had gone back to their seats at the round 
dining- table when the other people came into the room ; 
but Charlotte rose to shake hands with Mrs. Mirfield, and 
Molly rose and pushed her chair up nearer Charlotte’s for 
the elder lady; an attention which she accepted as she 
would have accepted it from the footman — without ac- 
knowledgment of any kind. 

Garth saw it, and for a moment there came a look into 
his usually grave face which was almost like an anticipa- 
tion of triumph ; but, whatever the look meant, it soon 
gave place to his former air of expectant anxiety. 

Clem’s eyes were busy too, and saw everything, and in 
the midst of all his excitement he felt that he would have 
liked to draw the chair from under his amiable sister and 
send her sprawling on the carpet ; but he contented him- 
self with fetching Molly another chair instead. 

Perhaps it was this trifling act of arrogance on his rela- 
tive’s part which led him to open his denunciation with 
an apology. 

“ I want you to understand, first of all,” he said, address- 
ing his remark pointedly to the pale, trembling little 
woman at his side, ‘‘ that if it hadn’t been for this other 
chap here I wouldn’t have moved in this matter at all; I 
would have left it, as George wished it to be left, until he 
came home from India to manage affairs his own way. But 
when I knew this man had got at Lady Mirfield, and told 
her everything, and was trying to get hush-money out of 
her, where was the use of my holding my tongue any longer, 
don’t you see, you know?” 

“No,” Molly answered, with a quick glance across at 


charlotte’s righteous resentment. 


369 


Charlotte’s white, rigid face, “ no, I suppose there is no 
possibility of any further concealment; the whole miser- 
able truth will have to come out now. I am only glad it 
did not happen before the poor old man upstairs went to 
his rest.” 

Mrs. George Mirfield snorted impatiently and loosened 
her bonnet strings, almost as if Molly’s audacity in allud- 
ing to the dead nobleman' had made her faint with indig- 
nation. 

“ Yes, I dare say it’s as well the earl knew nothing at all 
about it,” Clem went on, astonished to find how his repug- 
nance for the task before him increased as he drew nearer 
to it. “As it is, there’s not much harm done anywhere. 
My nephew isn’t the man to begrudge you the little you 
and the boy have cost the estate, and I shouldn’t he sur- 
prised if he settled something on the child; for blood’s 
thicker than water, after all, you know, Mr. Garth, and 
the youngster is no ways to blame for the misfortune of his 
birth.” 

“I think you are settling things a little prematurely,” 
Abney answered, with his habitual quietness rather accent- 
uated. “ Wouldn’t it be as well to tell us why Mrs. Mir- 
field and her boy are to resign their present position under 
the late Lord Netley’s will before you begin suggesting new 
arrangements?” 

Clem looked absolutely embarrassed. 

“ Is there any need at all for us to go into unpleasant de- 
tails?” he asked. “We all know the exact state of the 
case. What occasion is there to distress the lady most con- 
cerned by dragging her misfortunes into the discussion?” 

“ Yes,” said Charlotte, breaking in for the first time, “ I 
agree with you there. Let us drop the discussion of the 
past, if you please, Abney, and try to make the best ar- 
rangements we can for keeping this most ghastly scandal 
out of everybody’s mouth in the future.” 

“And condemn our criminal unheard?” asked Abney, 
with a queer little smile at Molly. 

“Well,” said Clem, looking rather roused at the other’s 
persistency, “ if it comes to that, don’t you think that, for 
your own sake, Mr. Garth, it is a case of ‘the least said the 
soonest mended’?” 

24 


370 


A COVENANT WITH THE BEAD. 


“Ah!” exclaimed Garth, flashing round quickly on the 
speaker, “ that is the sort of thing I have been waiting for. 
I could not understand why, if you knew as much as you 
pretended, you did not attack me with an accusation of 
conspiracy and fraud. The honest truth of this matter is 
that whatever wrong and wickedness there is in it I am 
responsible for. It was in obedience to my persuasion that 
Mrs. Arthur, as she has been called here, consented to the 
course of double-dealing and deceit which is to end with 
this meeting. Now, Mr. Borthwicke, I am not one of 
those meek people who care about being condemned un- 
heard, and since you have hinted an accusation against 
me, I shall make the best case possible for myself. It 
seemed to me at the time that I was justified in what I 
did; but I was harassed and torn half-a-dozen different 
ways by my feelings, and my duties to the different people 
I was mixed up with, and I have sometimes since wished 
that I had decided differently. However, it is useless 
reverting to that now. Will you state in round terms 
what your accusation against me is, and give me a chance 
of defending myself?” 

Charlotte’s face during this was a study. When Abney 
ranged himself openly on the side of the woman who had 
done hey this bitter wrong it seemed to her that nothing 
could ever astonish her again. The very world — her world, 
that is — was shaken to its foundations. 

“I’m glad you’ve put it that way,” Clem said. “You 
look better able to defend yourself than the other party ; 
and since you will have it, here it is. My charge against 
you is that you did, on the day following Lord Mirfield’s 
death, induce this lady here, the mother of his child, to 
accompany you to his father’s home in the place of and 
under the title and style of Mrs. Arthur Mirfield, that per- 
son being left behind in London under another name. I 
also accuse you of conspiring to pass this lady’s child off 
upon Lord Netley as Arthur Mirfield’s lawfully begotten 
son, that son having in reality died at Leuville, where he 
lies buried near his father ; and, further, I accuse you of 
conspiring to maintain the fraud, during the eighteen 
months it has been carried on, by every means in your 
power. ” 


charlotte’s righteous resentment. 371 

“Eight on every count!” answered Garth, and though 
his words came as deliberately, and the modulations of his 
fine voice rose and fell as evenly as ever, Molly and Char- 
lotte knew by the flexibility of his lips, and the unusual 
rapidity of his glance, as it travelled from face to face, 
that he was considerably stirred by what was taking place. 
“ Eight on every count, Mr. Borthwicke ! I plead guilty 
to the whole indictment; but I also plead justification, 
and as everybody here has heard the accusation, I think 
they should hear the justification too. Will you find your- 
self a chair, Mr. Maxon? It may take me some minutes 
to make myself understood.” He waited a moment, as if 
he found it difficult to know where to begin, and then 
turned to Borthwicke. “ It would have puzzled me to im- 
agine how you got at the secret of the substitution, but for 
a chance meeting I had with Mrs. Philpott in town yester- 
day afternoon. She told me how you had waylaid her, 
and wrung the truth from her, so you see this discovery 
has not come upon me quite unawares. If I could have 
contrived a few minutes’ private conversation with Lady 
Mirfield before your arrival, the whole of the mischief 
would have been taken out of this combined attack. As 
it is — well, I am afraid it will be a terrible ordeal for her, 
and it would be a very great relief to me if she would 
waive her right to hear the truth until a little later.” 

“Yes,” said Molly, rising with sudden eagerness, “yes, 
Charlotte, let us go away now, dear, and Abney will tell 
you everything when ” 

“I will hear it now, if you please,” she interposed, si- 
lencing Molly with a slight but imperious movement of her 
hand. “ It seems that everybody has been making a play- 
thing of me, for their own purposes, ever since the death 
of my husband. I don’t choose to be hoodwinked any 
longer. I will hear the whole truth at once, if you please.” 

Molly sat down again, with a pitiful little sigh, and 
Garth went on with what he had to say, looking at Char- 
lotte as little as he could, though his eyes would wander in 
her direction as often as he lost the hold on his self- 
restraint. 

“ I need not go into that part of the story affecting Ar- 
thur Mirfield ’s widow and child, beyond saying that, when 


372 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


I found out the boy was dead and the widow was in reality 
no widow at all, my chief worry was on account of the dis- 
appointment in store for Lord Netley. I knew better than 
anybody what the hope of Arthur’s son had been to him. 
Then there came the further crushing blow, the moment I 
reached London, of Lord Mirfield’s fatal accident. He was 
to die, too, it seemed, without leaving an heir behind him. 

“ Well, you all know how, the moment I had crossed 
from France, I went straight to his death-bed ; but only 
one among you knows of the confession he made to me as 
he lay dying. He confessed to me. Lady Mirfield, that he 
had wronged an innocent woman in a most dastardly fash- 
ion ; that he had gone through the form of marriage with 
her when he was already a married man, and that she 
firmly believed herself to be his wife; and he made me 
promise that, with heart and brain, I would struggle to 
shield this unfortunate woman from the shame he had 
brought on her and her child.” 

“He — married — her!” whispered Charlotte, with a half 
breath between each word, as if the thought was strangling 
her. “ He — married — her ! Oh, if you had but told me ! ” 

“Told you?” continued Garth. “What was the use of 
adding to your grief at such a time? And Lord Hetley — 
why add to the shock of the double blow which had al- 
ready fallen upon him, by telling him that his eldest son 
was a cowardly villain? Well, I gave Lord Mirfield the 
promise he asked of me, and in accordance with his in- 
structions I went to meet the lady and her child, who ar- 
rived from Plymouth at noon on the day of his death. 
And then. Lady Mirfield, when this lady began to talk to 
me, I found out the full significance of the promise I had 
given to the dead. All this time I had been laboring 
under the mistaken notion that this other lady was the 
wronged creature, whom I was to shield from the conse- 
quences of Mirfield’s infamy; but she soon set me right on 
that point. She had her dressing-case brought into the 
hotel, and unlocked it, and showed me her marriage cer- 
tificate; and the date it bore was a clear two months earlier 
than your marriage with Mirfield. You were, the injured 
woman for whom Mirfield had implored my good services; 
this other lady was the wife!” 


A THUNDERING BRICK. 


373 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A THUNDERING BRICK. 

Charlotte gave a cry and sprang upright, with her two 
hands pressed palms downward on the table in front of her; 
and the dead whiteness of the cloth under her extended 
fingers was not more void of color than her stricken face. 

Molly rose with her, and ran round the table, and threw 
herself on her knees by her side, and put an arm round 
her waist, and laid her lips warmly and pitifully on those 
wide-stretched strained fingers, and let her tears flow un- 
restrainedly over them, as she murmured brokenly an en- 
treaty for pardon. 

Every one else in the room had given some sign of as- 
tonishment as the truth burst in on their understandings, 
hut after that first exclamation they forgot their own feel- 
ings in presence of those others, so much stronger than 
theirs. 

“I can’t grasp it!” muttered Charlotte, with her dazed 
eyes searching Garth’s grieved face in a kind of mental 
stupefaction. “ Say it again, Abney ! I don’t seem to — 
understand.” 

“Molly has been the wife all the time,” he repeated. 
“ It was you that Mirfield was alluding to when he asked 
me to stand by the woman he had wronged ; but he men- 
tioned no name, and I committed the mistake naturally 
enough of thinking he was speaking of the lady I had just 
heard of for the first time.” 

“What a position,” she said, speaking as people speak 
in their sleep, without expression or emphasis of any kind; 
and it was strange how this absence of all expression in her 
voice and manner impressed the fact of her suffering upon 
her hearers, as perhaps no outward display of distress would 
have done ; “ what an intolerable position ! To think that 
all these years I have been nothing but a sham, a person 
utterly without name or standing, occupying my place 
here as Lord Netley’s daughter-in-law only by the forbear- 
ance of others! And my child, too, who and what is she? 


374 A COVENANT WITH THE HEAD. 

How shall I ever live and bear it? The shame and the 
pain of it press on me like death.” 

“There is no shame,” cried Garth, striking the table 
sharply with his hand, as if he would drive the idea home 
with a blow, “for you, Charlotte! No shame nor blame 
of the very faintest kind. If the whole world knew all 
there is to know of these most unhappy events, it would 
feel nothing but the most respectful sympathy for the po- 
sition you have been placed in. As for Daisy Is it 

worth while going into that? All memory of this miser- 
able business will have passed away long before she is old 
enough to understand such things. Miss Garth is not an 
imposing name, but it will do as well as any other ; she 
will adopt the name when you do, and there is an end of 
the difficulty as far as Daisy is concerned. Let us try to 
be practical over this business. Instead of thinking how 
terrible it is, let us try to remember how much more ter- 
rible it might have been. Suppose this discovery had 
been made during Lord Netley’s life? Think what it 
would have been to him to know of his son’s dishonor! 
Don’t you think we ought to be very grateful that he was 
spared that last blow? And it has needed some resolution, 
I assure you ! Things have not always been quite couleur 
de rose for that little lady at your side, who is behaving as 
if she thought she had need of your forgiveness for having 
treated you with the most extraordinary forbearance one 
woman ever showed to another. She has had a very great 
deal to put up with one way and the other ; more than w^e 
either of us foresaw when we arranged that she should pose 
here as Arthur’s widow, but she never flinched ; she bore 
it all for your sake and the sake of the old man who is 
gone.” 

Charlotte’s white face lost some of its ghastly rigidity 
as she listened, and her eyes softened. She did not move 
her hand away from Molly’s kisses, but she lifted the other 
and stroked the small brown head once or twice, and then 
pressed it up close, quite close, against her heart, and held 
it there, looking still across the table at Garth with a new 
wonderment deepening all over her. 

“ Such generosity!” she said. “ When in this world be- 
fore did ever woman have two such friends? Such self- 


A THUNDERING BRICK. 


375 


abnegation! And to think how I spoke to her just now — 
before dinner, in the hall; the shame of it! And she 
never answered me — as she might — and she has stood aside 
all this time, and left me the first place — I who had no 
shred of right — and she has put up with so much — how 
could she, Abney?” 

“ I suppose,” said Abney, with a warm smile, “ I suppose 
it is because she is what schoolboys would call a thundering 
brick; because, having once taken up her position, she 
meant to fight it out to the last. I think her colors were 
nailed to the mast before she went into action. And then 
she had an old debt to pay to you, Charlotte, and she was 
so proud and glad to have this chance of paying it.” 

“A debt? Tome?” 

“ She will tell you all that by and by, perhaps. It is 
nothing that will interest these ladies and gentlemen.” 

For the first time Charlotte moved her glance from her 
lover’s face and remembered the presence of the others. 
A faint pink flashed into her white cheeks as she met 
Borthwicke’s look of interest. 

“Shall we go, Abney?” she said. “It would have been 
better if I had done as you asked me — waited for this dis- 
closure in private. I brought it on myself by my stiff- 
neckedness. The pride that went before a fall,” she 
added, with a faint smile. “ Come, Molly!” 

“ I should like to say,” observed Clem, getting on to his 
feet suddenly, “that there is no fall to Lady Mirfield’s 
pride as far as I am concerned. When I leave this room 
the thing is done with. I’m not quite such a cur as to 
spoil a piece of work like this of Lady Molly’s, for the sake 
of a little foolish chatter. And Mr. Steward, here, can’t 
do better than promise to hold his tongue too.” 

Maxon did not answer instantly, looking round the circle 
of faces with a furtive significance which there was no mis- 
taking. 

“ It is a free country,” he said sullenly. “ A man can’t 
be punished for speaking the simple truth.” 

And then all in an instant Molly’s warrior blood was up, 
and she leaned across the table toward him. 

“No,” she answered, “but he can be punished for ap- 
propriating the contents of his master’s plate-basket, and 


376 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


you will understand, Maxon, that the first whisper that 
reaches us of public gossip being busy with this lady’s 
name I shall take as a signal to communicate with the 
police authorities, concerning a little transaction of that 
kind of which nobody hut you and I know anything at 
present. And you need not look at me in that defiant 
manner, my good soul,” she added, nodding her pretty 
head warningly at him, “for it happens, fortunately 
enough, that I know the name and address of the man at 
Plymouth to whom you took the silver to sell, and his evi- 
dence, or the evidence of his shopman, will always he forth- 
coming at a few hours’ notice. So take my advice and be 
obliging, and hold your tongue when you are requested to.” 

“I’m not aware as I ever said I was goin’ to do differ- 
ent,” said the ill-conditioned brute, making a virtue of 
necessity, and taking up a new position as soon as the 
old one grew untenable. “ If it’ll be any satisfaction to 
you to hear me take an oath on the subject, I’ll say, may 
God str ” 

“ That’s enough!” struck in Garth. “ Mrs. Mirfield has 
given you fair warning, see that you take it ; for mind 
you, Maxon, she has a habit of acting up to her promises. 
Can you find your way out, or shall I ring?” 

He rose and shambled from the room, looking about as 
thoroughly beaten as a man can look, and it is due to his 
sense of self-interest to say that, as far as could be judged 
by results, he kept his promise of silence to the letter. 

“ I suppose you are satisfied to take my word about this 
business, Mr. Borthwicke?” said Garth. “ If you would 
like to satisfy yourself by a glance at the certificates, I will 
give you the dates and names now — Lionel Mirfield and 
Margaret Evans, January the second ” 

“Evans!” cried Charlotte, turning round from the posi- 
tion she had taken up on the hearth-rug, and betraying 
the fact that she and Molly were “ laying themselves down” 
to a good cry; “Evans? Molly! I think I am beginning 
to understand ! Are you the daughter of that Mr. Evans 
who broke his arm on Bryn-mawr — the man Ehino and I 
watched by all through that big snow-storm? Are you 
the pretty child who came to see me with her mother the 
day afterward, and made some impassioned speech about 


A THUNDERING BRICK. 377 

paying me with her life for what I had done? Is that it, 
Molly? Have I found you out at last, dear girl?” 

And Molly making no denial, Charlotte put her arms 
round her, and they turned hack to the fire again to have 
their cry out in peace. 

If anybody had had the time or the inclination to give 
any attention to Mrs. George Mirfield during the last 
quarter of an hour, ever since Abney Garth’s disclosure of 
the truth, they would have seen for themselves how exces- 
sively uncomfortable that good lady found herself among 
her present circumstances; and her discomfort seemed to 
culminate now when — the two men being busy with pencils 
and note-books verifying the hard facts of the two mar- 
riages, and the two ladies being busier still with their 
efforts to atone to one another for the suffering they had 
innocently caused one another^she found herself stranded, 
as it were, high and dry upon the rocks of her own spite- 
ful malice, and realized the difficulty of scrambling down 
to the safe level of popular opinion again. 

If her attacks upon Molly had been made purely and 
simply with the legitimate object of establishing George’s 
claims on the estate, she would have found her present po- 
sition easier to defend ; but she knew, and she was thor- 
oughly aware that everybody else knew, that, apart from 
her perfectly natural desire for her son’s advancement, 
there had always been a strong leaven of personal animos- 
ity at work, in her attempts to bring the “ little play ac- 
tress ” at The Fallow into open shame and humiliation. 

And now, to discover that she was no play actress after 
all, and worse still, that in all her past there was nothing 
whatever against her; that, in fact, the more you knew 
about her the more blameless and lovable she appeared. 

Yes, Mrs. George Mirfield. was certainly very uncomfort- 
able as she sat at the table, a little apart from the two men, 
with her mind full of the astonishing disclosures she had 
just listened to. So thoroughly de trop did she feel that 
three several times she took hold of her loosened bonnet- 
strings, with the intention of tying them up and taking 
her departure; but somehow the thought of stalking 
through the room without a word to any one dismayed her, 
and she dropped her hands on her lap again and sat on, 


878 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


horribly conscious of being at a great disadvantage, and 
lacking the courage to set herself straight. 

And it ended by Molly making the amende which should 
have come from the other side. 

It was when Mr. Borthwicke rose to take his leave that 
the little woman first became aware of the exceedingly up- 
right, constrained bearing of her old adversary, and with 
! a quaint little exclamation, half amusement, half sym- 
pathy, she went round to her and held out her hand. 

I “Please let us be real good friends at last,” she said. 
“ You know everything there is to know about me now, I 
promise you ; won’t you try to think a little better of me, 
now you know that I was not the ignorant person who put 
the advertisement of Arthur Mirfield’s marriage in the 
Morning Post^ without naming either the church or the 
clergyman who performed the ceremony? Don’t you re- 
member how you sat in judgment upon me for the omis- 
sion, and how abominably impertinent I was to you in re- 
turn? You must try to make some little excuse for me. 
I have always been so terrified when anybody tried to dip 
into that marriage business, and I used to try to cover up 
my fright with bluster, don’t you see? It was part of the 
price I had to pay for my deceit. You won’t remember 
it against me now, will you?” 

And Mrs. Mirfield graciously consented “ not to remem- 
ber it against her now,” and shook hands'with great affa- 
bility, and allowed herself to be coaxed into forgetting her 
past offensive conduct; which, as Abney pointed out, was 
exceeding considerate of her toward her own interests, as 
to be at variance with the present head of the house would 
not at all fit in with her desire to be ranked as one of the 
family circle at The Fallow. 

It was very late indeed that night before the lights were 
all out in Netley Fallow. Molly had much to tell, and 
Charlotte much to hear ; but in all that long exchange of 
confidences it was noticeable that there was little or noth- 
ing relating to events which had happened during Lord 
Mirfield’s lifetime. That period would always remain a 
closed book between them ; it was proper and natural that 
it should be so; but there was no dearth of topics between 
them on that account. 


A THUNDERING BRICK. 


379 


I don’t know upon whom the blow fell more heavily,” 
said Molly, as she sat on the rug in Charlotte’s dressing- 
room between two and three in the morning, with her hair 
down about her ; “ upon Abney or me, when we discovered 
exactly how things stood. Of course all his sympathies 
were with you and Lord Netley, and, equally of course, all 
mine were for my boy and his rights. I should have come 
straight down here and made a clean breast of the whole 
terrible thing, if Abney had not happened to mention you 
by your maiden name, Lotte, and then ” 

She paused a moment, and drew a big, deep breath, and 
when she began again, it seemed at first as if she had 
started another subject altogether. 

“ Do you remember my poor mother at all, Lotte? I 
don’t suppose you do; you only saw her that once, the day 
after my father’s accident, if you could call it seeing her, 
when you sat and talked for a quarter of an hour in a half- 
dark room.” 

But Charlotte did remember Mrs. Evans quite well, and 
she said so. 

“ Still, you could hardly judge the sort of woman she 
was from that short glimpse of her. She was the most 
simple and sincerely religious person I have ever known, 
Lotte. No matter what she was doing, or where she was, 
religion came as natural to her as the air she breathed. 
We got used to it at home, and never saw anything funny 
in it, because we all knew so well that every word of it 
came straight from her heart ; but I have seen strangers 
quite at a loss when she pitchforked texts into the midst 
of the conversation, without a suspicion of their unsuit- 
ableness to the subject under discussion. Well, the grat- 
itude this poor, quaint, simple-minded mother of mine 
felt toward you was a positive passion. From the day of 
my father’s accident up to the time I left home, your 
name was always mentioned in her family prayers every 
evening, with an entreaty that Heaven would bless every 
step of your path through life; and so the feeling that we 
all owed you a something we could never hope to repay got 
to be an article of m'y religious creed, and abode with me 
always immovable. So now, perhaps, you can understand 
something of what I felt when Abney mentioned your 


380 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


maiden name, and I discovered that the woman I was go- 
ing to drag down from her place,* in order to make room 
for myself, was the woman whose name had always held a 
place in my memory as the greatest benefactress of my 
life. How could I bring myself to do it? But again, 
how could I consent to sacrifice my boy’s prospects in life? 
I put the question direct to Abney. For myself, I was 
content to stand aside and be a nonentity all my days; but 
how to reconcile this with my duty to my child? 

“ And then Abney had an inspiration. Lord Netley had 
sent him to bring home his grandson — Arthur’s son ; why 
should we not take Lionel’s son home to him instead? 
And when I found my boy would not suffer, I jumped at 
the idea. Here was a way at last by which I could show 
that my gratitude was something more than mere words. 

“ So I came, Lotte, prepared from the first to revere 
and worship you from a distance, but you improved on my 
plan by taking me into your very heart at the first go off, 
and I worshipped and loved you all the better for the 
change. 

“ And from that day until this I never once regretted 
the decision I came to ” 

“No, but you did to-day — you must!” said Lotte. 
“ When I said those awful things to you in the hall ” 

“ No, I did not regret it even then : I knew you would 
know soon. My one regret has always been that Lionel 
and I ever met. He used to come down that time — you 
know — after my father’s fall, to ask how he got on. Every 
day he came, and when mother was busy, I would see 
him ” 

“Good heavens!” cried Charlotte, and stopped short. 
She was thinking how those daily visits of Mirfield’s had 
originated. It was she herself who had laid upon him the 
duty of making daily inquiries concerning the progress of 
the man she had preserved from death, and this was what 
had come of it. In all that had happened there was noth- 
ing of the nature of a coincidence. One event had pro- 
duced another in a natural sequence, and all the harm that 
had come about had resulted from the simplest chance in 
the world. 

If she had allowed Lionel to return to Yorkshire with 


A THUNDERING BRICK. 


381 


her the day after his proposal, as he himself wished, those 
daily meetings with Mr. Evans’ daughter would never have 
taken place, his impressionable fancy would never have 
been caught by her winsome face and' impulsive little man- 
ners, and two women’s lives would have gone with compar- 
ative smoothness. It was a weird, uncanny thought to 
dwell upon, that all this suffering and pain had resulted 
from such a mere whim as that desire of hers to travel 
home alone, so weird that she put it from her, and took 
herself to task for her own presumption, with a sudden 
recollection of the lines: 

“ There is a divinity above doth shape our ends, 
Rough-hew them as we will.” 

Why should she dare to believe that her whole life had 
been influenced for evil by such an insignifleant chance as 
that? Did God take no more interest in the creatures He 
created than such a belief would imply? She could not 
think it. It was all a part of the vast mystery of life, a 
mystery far beyond the grasp of her finite understanding, 
and she would not commit the common blunder of ignor- 
ance, that, because she could see no good in it, therefore 
it must be evil. 

And so she kissed Molly as tenderly as ever when at last 
they separated for a few hours’ rest ; and if she had to con- 
fess, in the deepest recesses of her heart, that she was glad 
that they were not henceforth to pass their daily lives in 
one another’s society, can she be blamed very heavily for 
it? Henceforth for her there would always be a faint 
flavor of bitterness mixed up with Molly’s sweetness; she 
would never be able to quite forget that this self-same bit- 
terness had lured her first love from his sworn allegiance 
to herself, that it had come between her and the accom- 
plishment of her girlhood’s dream. She might never let 
the memory influence her manner in the slightest degree, 
but it would always lurk in her mind, and its presence 
must inevitably dim the pleasure of her intercourse with 
the woman who had won the prize she had striven so hard 
for. 

The only person in all the world who ever guessed at 
this feeling was Garthj and while recognizing its injustice, 


382 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


he had the good sense not to attempt to conquer it; ac- 
knowledging to himself that Charlotte would have been 
more than human if she had not felt something of the 
kind, and leaving to' time the task of dulling the pain 
from which the touch of jealousy sprang. 

It was about a fortnight after Lord Netley’s death that 
business took Mr. Borthwicke into the neighborhood of St. 
James.’, between eight and nine in the evening. The sight 
of The Dodos’ club-house recalled Eoyston to his mind, and, 
acting on the impulse of the moment, he ran up the steps 
into the hall, and asked if that gentleman was in. A sud- 
den desire had come to him to enlighten Molly’s champion 
as to the hona-fides of the lady whose battle he had fought 
so valiantly. 

The man in the hall remembered Clem’s face; and, 
apart from that, Mr. Eoyston was a man who saw all his 
callers, except when he was engaged at the whist- table, so 
Mr. Borthwicke got the information he wanted. 

Mr. Eoyston was at the theatre — a most unusual place 
for him to be in — but Mr. Kelper had talked him into 
going to see a piece written by an old friend of Mr. Eoy- 
ston’s, and it had taken him a good ten minutes to coax 
him away from the card-room. Yes, as luck would have 
it, he did know which theatre they had gone to ; he had 
heard the order given to the cabman. It was The Portico. 

Clem had no occupation for the evening. Why should 
he not go also to The Portico, and see this piece of Claxton’s 
which was being so much talked about, and perhaps see 
Eoyston at the same time? 

The pit was full, but by dint of perseverance he in time 
got down to the barrier at the back of the stalls, and looked 
about for Eoyston ’s slim, upright figure. He discovered 
him presently in a box with a big, fair young man, whom 
he recognized as the Mr. Kelper he had seen in the hall at 
The Fallow. Claxton was there too, in irreproachable 
evening dress, and looking an altogether different person 
from the Bohemian pantomime writer of “ The Camel and 
Howdah.” 

Clem waited till the act was over, and contrived in some 
mysterious manner to work his Avay into the smoking-room 


A THUNDEHING BRICK. 


383 


attached to the dress circle, and there, sure enough, he 
met his man. 

It was rather a funny meeting. 

When Eoyston saw him approaching, and divined his 
intention to speak, he looked him straight in the face, and 
then deliberately turned his back. But Mr. Borthwicke 
was nowise thin-skinned, and he put his hands in his 
pockets and nodded with graceful ease to the other two 
men. 

“How do?” he said pleasantly. “Mr. Eoyston don’t 
look pleased to see me, does he? and I’ve come down here 
to-night on purpose to see him, too, as well as to congrat- 
ulate you, Mr. Claxton, on your long-looked-for-come-at- 
last piece of luck. Mr. Eoyston was very annoyed with 
me the last time I had the pleasure of seeing you, Mr. 
Kelper, and no doubt he thought he had cause. But he 
hadn’t all the same, don’t you see you know. You remem- 
ber the time I refer to? ” 

“ Perfectly,” Kelper answered shortly. 

“ Well, at that time I knew no more than a babe unborn 
of any reason why the sight of Arthur Mirfield’s old friend 
should upset his supposed widow in that unaccountable 
fashion ; but I’ve grown wiser since then, and if he wouldn’t 
take it as a liberty I should like to call him a name that 
Mr. Garth applied to the little lady in question, the last 
time I had the honor to be in her presence. I should like 
to call him ‘a thundering brick!’ ” 

“ What do you mean, sir?” asked Eoyston, facing round 
suddenly. 

“ Just what I say,” answered the little pop-gun of a man. 
“ The lady you befriended so handsomely deserved all your 
forbearance, and more. It ain’t the sort of thing to talk 
about in a public place like this, but I thought you would 
like to know that she had been the victim of appearances 
all through the piece, bang through from the very begin- 
ning, you understand, and that there is not the faintest 
chance of her position or her son’s position ever being 
attacked again.” 

“ I am glad to hear it,” Eoyston said quietly. 

He could not keep his surprise altogether out of his face, 
but he could and did keep it out of his words, and just for 


384 


A COVENANT AVITH THE DEAD. 


a moment it seemed as if there was nothing further to say, 
until Clem mentioned his intention of going behind the 
scenes to see Miss Cunningham. 

Then Olaxton had a word in the matter. 

“She knows all you want to tell her,” he said. “Mr. 
Garth wrote her a full account a week ago. I would not 
go round to-night if I were you. Her wretched old sinner 
of a husband is so ill that she hardly expects to find him 
alive when she gets home. I’ll tell her of your kind in- 
tention if you like. I have arranged to take her home by 
and by.” 

Clem looked knowing, but had the grace to hold his 
tongue, and, after shaking hands all round, found his way 
back to his place in the pit, and sat the piece out to the 
end. 

As Kelper and Eoyston took their way westward later 
on, the elder man rallied his companion on his absence of 
mind, and wanted to know if there was any bother on. 

“Well,” came the answer, “ I wouldn’t confess as much 
to any other man alive, but I’ve had a bad fall, Eoyston, 
and it’s shaken me more than I fancied. Nothing lasting, 
you know, but I think I shall pull round all the quicker 
for a little change of ideas. I’ll get away a bit. Do some 
bear-shooting in Eussia, or something of the sort, and 
knock the nonsense out of myself. If anybody is curious 
about me, you can say the usual thing — ‘ Gone to kill some- 
thing.’ I’ll be back in time for the grouse, and I count 
on you to come and help me warm the old Yorkshire house 
again.” 

Eoyston said nothing beyond a formal acceptance of the 
invitation. He remembered the scene in the hall at The 
Fallow, and thought he knew something, but he was noth- 
ing if not consistent, and non-intervention was still his 
favorite principle. 


385 


“as it fell upon a day/’ etc. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ AS IT FELL UPON A DAY ; IN THE MERRY, MERRY MONTH 
OF MAY.” 

The world in general never knew quite how it came 
about that Molly was received in society as “ Lady Mir- 
field,” but then, as a matter of fact, the world did not 
really trouble itself much about it. 

It was at the house of Mrs. Abney Garth — the wife of 
one of the most notable scientific writers of the day — that 
the world in general first made Molly’s acquaintance, 
and since Mrs. Abney Garth always alluded to her sister- 
in-law as “ Lady Mirfield,” and always introduced her as 
such, it came about as a natural thing that the world in 
general followed the example set it. 

At the same time, people did wonder a little that Mrs. 
Abney Garth should have been willing to drop her title 
of viscountess, but it was perhaps hardly to be wondered at 
on the whole, seeing how she revelled in her husband’s dis- 
tinction, that she should prefer to be known by his name 
alone, without any misguiding prefix whatever. 

But the world had long ago ceased to wonder about these 
things now, since they were among the accepted facts of 
the past three seasons, although there was another little 
matter in connection with that same set of people which 
continued to arouse the idle curiosity of a great many. 
Folks continually wondered among themselves why “ that 
sweet little Lady Mirfield^ did not get married again. 

“ It’s not for want of chances, that I do know,” said Tom 
Toozle to the Honorable Jimmy Plunger in the smoke-room 
of the club, ” nor for want of good chances neither. It 
ain’t only the needy young grubbers like you and me, 
Jimmy, my boy, who are anxious to make a grab at that 
plump, dainty, succulent little caterpillar. Chaps whose 
own banking accounts place them right away above any 
suspicion of hankering after the chance of playing host 
down at Netley Fallow for the next fifteen years or so, have 
made themselves conspicuous by doddering about after her 
25 


386 A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 

in the most sickening fashion. And not only one or two, 
neither. She had a plenty to pick from last season, and 
she’s got as many again this, but she seems to turn up her 
good-looking little nose at the lot. I wonder what she’s 
waiting for — a dook, perhaps, or a prince of the blood 
royal.” 

“Got a bit dainty, perhaps,” observed the Honorable 
Jimmy. “ Likely as not she’ll have to put up with the 
crooked stick after all, if she don’t mind her p’s and q’s.” 

“ I think her behavior is simply disgusting,” said Lady 
Sapolio to her four unmarried daughters, in the privacy 
of her own sanctum. “ If she doesn’t mean to marry again, 
why does she go into society at all? The way she allows 
the men to run about after her is positively indecent. If 
she don’t want any of them she might at least give some- 
body else a chance.” 

“ As for them running after her,” returned the youngest 
and least soured of the Sapolio fledglings, “ I really don’t 
believe she can help that, mother. I’ve seen her look 
downright bored when some old imbecile has been paying 
her ridiculous compliments.” 

“Not help it? Don’t betray your ignorance in that 
fashion!” exclaimed the mother. “Do you think lever 
had men running about after me when I was a girl, as she 
has? I hope,” she added immediately, warned perhaps by 
some flash of mutual understanding in the faces before her 
that it would be wiser not to wait for a definite answer to 
her inquiry — “ I hope I knew better what was due to my- 
self and my position. A woman can always help making 
herself conspicuous if she chooses. I have heard there is 
some curious story about Lady Mirfield’s marriage, some- 
thing exceedingly discreditable; nobody seems to know the 
exact truth of the aflfair, but it is quite certain there is 
something against her if one could only get at the real 
facts. And that makes her present conduct all the more 
incomprehensible. One would have thought she would 
have been glad to marry again, and leave the past behind 
her.” 

And even Charlotte joined privately in the outcry against 
Molly’s fastidiousness, and felt herself personally aggrieved 
when she refused her fourth really good chance, without 


“as it fell upon a day,’’ etc. 387 

offering any explanation of her conduct beyond the usual 
excuse of disinclination. 

“ What more can she want?” Mrs. Garth asked of her 
husband, with an injured air. “ It is impossible that a 
woman of her age can expect to live the rest of her life 
alone, and this man is irreproachable in every way. I do 
wish you would give her a good talking to, Abney.” 

And Abney, who always made a point of obliging his 
wife when there was no reason why he should not, did 
venture a little remonstrance when he next found himself 
alone with Molly. 

But he did not get much satisfaction out of the inter- 
view. 

Molly laughed her gay little laugh, and candidly confessed 
her shortcomings. It was very ungrateful to keep on sayr 
ing “No,” when Lotte put herself to so much trouble to 
secure these good chances for her. Perhaps it would be as 
well to put men on their guard from the first. Did Abney 
think it would be a good idea to supplement all future in- 
troductions with a remark to the effect that she was not 
for disposal? 

“If I was not positively certain to the contrary,” said 
Mrs. Garth, when her husband reported the interview to 
her, “ I should think there was somebody else in the back- 
ground; but that is quite out of the question. We know 
everybody she has met, both at Netley and in town, and I 
am certain there is nobody among them that she cares for 
in the least.” 

Which remark only goes to show how well Molly had 
kept her secret. But her Nemesis was at hand. 

She was driving alone down Piccadilly — she brought her 
own victoria to town with her for the season always, so 
that she might not put too great a strain upon Lotte’s 
horses, who had quite enough work on their hands with 
their owner’s numerous engagements, and that was how it 
happened that she was a] one on this particular afternoon 
at the end of May — just at the busiest hour of the day. 
Lotte had so much work to get through just now that she 
had scarcely a minute to call her own, and she had asked 
Molly to go down to Mr. Hayes’ office in Bond Street, to 
see if there was a decent box left for The Portico that 


388 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


night. A girl cousin of Abney’s had put in a rather un- 
expected appearance from the country that morning for a 
week’s stay, and this was the only night Lotte could spare 
for the play. 

Molly was feeling a little fatigued this afternoon, and 
was congratulating herself, as she was carried smoothly 
along on her noiseless tires, on her coming emancipation. 
She never spent July in London; another week or ten 
days would find her back at Netley, among her own partic- 
ular set of friends, with full liberty to exert herself just 
as much or as little as fitted in with the inclination of the 
moment. 

Noting the thirsty look of the trees on the pavement, 
and the glare of the roadway under the white sunlight, 
and the tired looks of most of the people on the omnibuses, 
she almost wished she was already up there in her lovely 
old house, with the fresh, free air from the Yorkshire moors 
blowing about her. 

A sudden dislike^ for all this eager, bustling, pushing, 
striving stream of life seized upon her, as it often did 
toward the end of her two-months’ stay with the Garths. 
She wanted to be away from this wedged mass of human- 
ity, the jostling cabs and carriages, these red-faced ’bus 
drivers and panting horses, these towering buildings, and 
this everlasting stream of men and women, all so horribly 
like one another that one grew heart-sick of the monoto- 
nous procession of funnel hats and frock coats, and straight 
skirts and wasp waists, and felt a positive sense of mental 
refreshment at the sight of a Neapolitan organ-grinder, 
unwashed though she might be, because of the grateful 
touch of variety she imparted to the scene. 

She got blocked some little distance before she reached 
Bond Street, and sat and simmered in the sunshine, and 
watched the people filing past on the pavements, and 
rather envied some of them their capacity for enjoyment 
as exemplified by their smiling faces. 

While she was still blocked there, close to the curb, a 
man passed by, so near that she could have touched his 
coat-sleeve. She saw him for the briefest moment imagin- 
able as he passed on with his back to her, and was shut 
from her sight by the man on the box, but that momentary 


“as it fell upon a day,” etc. 


389 


view of an unusually wide pair of shoulders and an uncom- 
monly long pair of arms set her heart beating and plung- 
ing about inside her until it threatened to fight its way 
out of her altogether. 

Was it, could it be George? 

All these three years she had heard nothing of him 
except through other people — an occasional “ kind remem- 
brance” or “ best respects” at the tail end of a business let- 
ter to Abney was all the communication she had received 
from him since the night they had talked across the en- 
graving in the drawing-room at Netley, the night he had 
told her he had found out all about “ Philpott,” that he 
did not blame her a bit, but was sorry for her from the 
bottom of his heart. 

He must have heard all about that miserable deception 
long before now, for though he had been right away up in 
the front of the expedition into Burmah all the time, he 
had kept up a regular correspondence with his mother the 
whole way through, and she was bound to have given a 
full account of the disclosures which had followed upon 
Lord Netley’s death. 

But as he had not chosen to make any sign Molly had 
not found it possible to do so either; and so things had 
remained as they were all through this long separation. 
And now, here he was back in London agaiu, without 
having given anybody notice of his return, and — how were 
they going to meet one another? 

When her carriage moved on again she had forgotten all 
about her own fatigue, and the heat of the day, and her 
longing for the country air ; she had eyes and thoughts 
for but one thing. Where was George? Had he gone on 
down Piccadilly, or had he turned up Bond Street? 

She watched the pavement and the shop windows nar- 
rowly as she went quietly along in the slow-moving proces- 
sion of vehicles, and just before she reached the end of 
Bond Street she saw the man with the long arms cross it, 
and go straight on. 

“ Go on to the Burlington Arcade,” she called up to the 
coachman, “and get through as quickly as you can.” 

And then she sat back in the carriage again, and won- 
dered if the men had noticed the throb in her voice, and 


390 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


kept her eyes on the broad, low shoulders just ahead of 
her. 

If it should not be George after all? 

She turned her face right round to the pavement as 
they drew level, and then, in her eagerness to catch his 
glance, she leaned quite forward and well over the side 
toward him. 

The movement attracted his attention, and their eyes 
met, and a great light flashed across his face, and his hat 
was off, and the carriage was drawn up at the curb, and 
her hand was in his, and “Little madame!" he said, with 
his very heart in his voice, and then they remained look- 
ing at one another, and saying nothing. 

But for all that there must have been some touch of im- 
pressiveness in the meeting, for several passers-by were 
struck by the look on Molly’s face, and some of them even 
drew up when they had gone a few steps on, and turned to 
watch the scene a little longer. 

Well, Molly could not keep her lips hard nor prim, nor 
could she prevent her eyes from shining in the throb and 
glow of that moment, but, that apart, she behaved with 
the most remarkable presence of mind. 

“ I am going to get a box for ‘ The Matchmaker’ for to- 
night,” she said; “will you come with me and help me to 
choose it?” 

And George stepped into the dainty little carriage, and 
the horses’ heads were turned toward Bond Street again. 

What those two people said to each other during that 
drive goodness alone knows. Perhaps — indeed, probably 
— they said very little in actual words; for Molly only 
wanted to know one thing, and that she chose to think 
that first glance of his had told her. Was it possible, she 
said to herself confidentially, that a man could look at a 
woman in just that fashion unless he loved her? 

But whether they said much or little, the result was emi- 
nently satisfactory. 

At six o’clock that evening Charlotte was in her hus- 
band’s large, cool, shadowy study at the back of the house, 
drinking a cup of tea, while she told him the events of her 
afternoon round of visits. She had really come in as much 
for the sake of weaning him from his work as anything. 


“as IT FELL UPON A DAY,” ETC. 391 

“because she particularly wanted him to go with them to 
the theatre that night, and she knew he would need a little 
coaxing to reconcile him to the seven o’clock dinner — which 
meant the loss of a clear hour from his afternoon’s work. 

She had only just succeeded in making him sociable and 
pleasant when they were both surprised by the sudden ap- 
pearance of Molly at the door — Abney’s study was looked 
upon as sacred ground by everybody in the house but his 
wife. 

“ They told me you were here, Lotte,” said Molly, stand- 
ing in the open doorway, outlined against the radiance of 
the sunlit hall behind her, and looking herself the person- 
ification of sunshine, from the topmost rosebud in her 
dainty bonnet to the hem of her gauzy gray gown, “ and 
I was so impatient I could not wait while a message was 
sent to you. There is an old friend outside here ; may he 
come in?” 

Lotte jumped out of her deep chair, and set her tea-cup 
down with a little clatter, and came hastily forward, catch- 
ing the infection of Molly’s eagerness at a glance. 

“Who is it?” she said. “Is it a trick you are playing 
on us, Molly?” 

And Molly stepped aside and beckoned George to show 
himself; and even she, exacting as she was for him, could 
not find anything to complain of in the welcome they gave 
him. 

“ What an unfair thing to take us by surprise like this! ” 
said Abney, when the first burst of greeting was over. “ If 
you thought to get here in advance of your new reputation 
as a hero you have only arrived in time to find out your 
mistake. Three weeks ago the papers were full of your 
exploit at the passing of the Wahally. We were quiet 
lions for a few days by reason of our remote connection 
with you. Lady Mirfield got quite sick of saying 'yes’ to 
the eternal question, ‘Was she any relation to the Wahally 
man?’ ” 

“ George knows better than to believe that,” said Molly, 
smiling across at him in a way which rather made Char- 
lotte open her eyes. “ I never was so proud of being a 
Mirfield as when I was able to claim relationship with the 
man everybody was talking about.” 


392 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


“We wondered if you would get the Victoria Cross, 
George,” Charlotte said inquiringly. 

But he shook his head with a quiet smile. 

“ That sort of thing does not fall in my way,” he said. 
“ I’ve got a stiff knee, which I am likely to carry to my 
grave, to remember the affair by. If it had not been for 
the doctor’s orders to come home and give the joint a 
chance, I should have waited out there till the fuss had all 
blown over.” 

“I’m glad you did not,” said Charlotte. “You have 
just arrived in time to give a fillip to the end of the season. 
I shall reissue my cards for my last two At Homes, and let 
people understand they are to meet Captain George Mir- 
field.” 

But George would not hear of this. He could not face 
anything of that kind, he said ; and besides, he was going 
to utilize his sick-leave by getting married. He hoped to 
be off on his honeymoon by that day week, so Charlotte 
would have to excuse him this time. 

And as he spoke, Mrs. Garth caught him taking a wicked 
glance at Molly, and looking that way herself she found 
that Molly was actually blushing, upon which there was a 
great outcry of astonishment and indignation, and inquiry 
as to the “ When and How” of this surprising state of 
affairs. 

But she did not hear all the story there and then, for 
they had to rush away to dress, and George in particular 
had to hurry, for he had to get all the way down to St. 
James’ and back, and make his toilet into the bargain, in 
Of few minutes over the half-hour. For he did give in that 
much to Charlotte’s desire to lionize him, he consented to 
make one of the party in her box that evening. 

It was at the end of the first act — when Charlotte had 
borne off her husband and the girl cousin to pay a visit to 
some people in the opposite box, about whom she did not 
care a rap, and who were very surprised at the unexpected 
civility — when Molly and George had ten minutes of one 
another’s precious society, that Molly pointed out a name 
on the programme, “ Miss Cunningham.” 

“ Do you know who she is?” she asked. “Do you re- 
member telling me, that last awful night at The Fallow, 


‘‘as it fell upon a day,” etc. 


393 


tliat you had found out all about Philpott? Well, this 
Miss Cunningham was the real Mrs. Philpott, the real 
Molly de Oourcy who married Arthur Mirfield. She is 
Mrs. Somebody-else now. That poor Philpott has been 
dead quite a long time, and she has married a man who 
writes plays — oh, here is his name, this is one of his pieces 
— Mr. Claxton. They are quite people of consequence. 
Charlotte knows them, and she and I bow to one another 
when our carriages pass in the park. She is a dear little 
woman — as charming off the stage as she is on, and I be> 
lieve her husband adores her. She is almost the only lady 
caller that Abney leaves his study for. I should like to 
ask them to The Fallow this autumn, at the same time 
with Abndy and Charlotte.” 

“ She must be a thoroughly good sort to have kept quiet 
as she did,” said George. “Ask them by all means.” 

Charlotte behaved with the most exemplary patience all 
through that evening, but when George had at last taken 
his departure for the night she followed Molly to her room 
with a very determined look in her eye, and demanded to 
be told the meaning of all this surprising business; and 
Molly had to make a clean breast of the whole thing, and 
nicely indignant Charlotte was when she heard. 

“ You have often been mad with me because I sent other 
men away,” said Molly, when she had related the whole 
story of the Leuville love-making, “ but how could I give 
a thought to another man, while there was the faintest 
chance of George and me ever coming together? Did you 
ever hear of such unselfishness — to go quietly away like 
that, and leave me in possession of the position which he be- 
lieved was his by right? It was every scrap as generous on 
his part as if I had really been the adventuress he thought 
me, and I don’t believe there is another man living who 
would have done it.” 

At heart Charlotte was inclined to challenge this asser- . 
tion, but, looking at Molly’s brimming eyes and tremulous 
lips, she thought better of it, and stooped and kissed her 
instead. 

“You romantic, impulsive little person! ” she said, “it 
is lucky that it is such a suitable arrangement, for you 
would have married him, no matter how undesirable the 


394 


A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD. 


match might have been. As it is — well, it might easily 
have been much worse. He has the income from his mother, 
and the twenty thousand from Lord Netley, and, of course, 
he will have all his mother has to leave. Then, again, it 
will be very convenient having one of the trustees in resi- 
dence at The Fallow ; it will ease Abney of the greater part 
of the responsibility, and set his mind at rest about doing 
his duty to the estate.” 

“Well, it is fortunate you approve,” answered Molly, 
with a smile which Charlotte understood perfectly, although 
she made believe she did not see it. “ There is only one 
drawback to the whole thing, and that is Mrs. George.” 

“ I think you may safely leave that to him,” said Char- 
lotte ; and the result proved her in the right. 

The Honorable Mrs. George Mirfield was never once 
allowed to assume an air of authority in her daughter-in- 
law’s house, and the old feud no longer existed, except as 
a small cloud in the sky, left a long way behind. 

George has not gone out to Burmah again. That stiff- 
ness of the knee-joint has turned out a stubborn business, 
and promises to fulfil his prophecy of standing by him, as 
a memento of the Wahally affair, to his dying day. It 
does not interfere much with him while he keeps on his 
feet, but it has robbed him of his old dashing seat in the 
saddle. It is a source of great regret to him, of course, 
and Molly’s sympathy is always full and ready when he 
alludes to it; but then, as she says, how much worse it 
might have been. But for the injury to his knee he might 
have remained out there in India until he had lost his last 
shred of liver, or until she had, in desperation, married 
one of her numerous danglers ; while, as it is — well, as it 
is, Charlotte declares that Molly is proud of that slight 
limp of her husband’s, that she is never so inordinately 
vain as when somebody asks her how Captain Mirfield got 
his stiff knee, and she is able to answer, with a transparent 
little air of thinking nothing of it : 

“ Oh, don’t you know? It happened in the Wahally in- 
cident — the crossing of the torrent, you know. One of 
our advance parties were surprised in overwhelming num- 
bers by the Dacoits, and my husband and two others held 
a plank bridge while the men were sawing it through be- 


“as it fell upon a day,” etc. 


395 


hind them. He put his knee out as he swam across after- 
ward, and it was not properly attended to. When he 
grumbles about it, I call it his V.C., because it always 
draws attention to his valor ; but he says it is a distinction 
he could have done without remarkably well.” 


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PEARL POWDER. 

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“0*TH0U, MY AUSTRIA!” 

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THE LADY WITH THE RUBIES. 

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THE OLD MAM’SELLE’S SECRET. 

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Tourgenieif himself, whose books it somewhat resembles in tone and spirit. 
It is a striking psychological essay, a masterly study of character, and at 
the same time a vivid and fascinating picture of life. The incidents of the 
story are intensely, though not sensationally, dramatic, and the reader’s 
interest increases from the arrival of the bride to the simple but sufficient 
and satisfactory dinouement.” — Literary World. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


“OUIDA’S” 

Popular Novels. 


l2mo. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 40 cents. 


BEATRICE BOVILLE. 

CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S GAGE. 
CHANDOS. 

FOLLE-FARINE. 

GRANVILLE DE VIGNE. 
IDALIA. 

RANDOLPH GORDON. 
STRATHMORE. 

TRICOTRIN. 

UNDER TWO FLAGS. 

BIMBI : Stories for Children. 
OTHMAR. 

A HOUSE-PARTY. 


PUCK. 

PASCAREL. 

BEBEE. 

SIGNA. 

IN A WINTER CITY. 
ARIADNE. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

MOTHS. 

A VILLAGE COMMUNF 
IN MAREMMA. 
WANDA. 

PRINCESS NAPRAXINE 
GUILDEROY. 


SYRLIN. Paper, 50 cents. 


“ ‘ Ouida’ is one of the most interesting writers of her time. 
She has close observation, much imaginative fertility, a copious 
vocabulary, and a retentive memory .” — York Herald. 

“ ‘ Ouida’ s’ stories are abundant in world knowledge and 
world-wisdom, strong and interesting in plot. Her characters are 
conceived and elaborated with a skill little short of masterly, and 
the reflective portions of her stories are marked by fine thought 
and a deep insight into the workings of human nature .” — Boston 
Gazette. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


“The Duchess” Novels. 


l2mo. Bound only in cloth, 75 cents. 


Phyllis. 

Molly Bawn. 

Airy Fairy Lilian. 
Beauty’s Daughters. 
Faith and Unfaith. 
Doris. 

“O Tender Dolores.” 

A Maiden All Forlorn. 
In Durance Vile. 

The Duchess. 

Marvel. 

Jerry, and other Stories. 


Mrs. Geoffrey. 

Portia. 

Loys, Lord Berresford, and 
other Stories. 

Rossmoyne. 

A Mental Struggle. 

Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. 
Lady Branksmere. 

A Modern Circe. 

The Honourable Mrs. Vereker. 
Under-Currents 
A Life’s Remorse. 


“ In all her stories ‘ The Duchess’ shows the same excellent 
qualities. She is bright, spirited, vivacious, and invents a 
dramatic situation capitally. She begins at you with so much 
dash and sparkle that you find yourself in quite a glow at 
having found a genius .” — Iowa Gate City. 


A Little Irish Girl. 

i2mo. Cloth, 75 cents; paper, 50 cents. 

“ ‘ The Duchess’ has well deserved the title of being one 
of the most fascinating novelists of the day. The stories written 
by her are the airiest, lightest, and brightest imaginable ; full 
of wit, spirit, and gayety, yet containing touches of the most 
exquisite pathos. There is something good in all of them.” — 
London Academy. 


MADAME DE MAURESCAMP. 

A Story of Parisian Life. By Octave Feuillet. l2mo. 

Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. 

A distinctively Parisian story in Feuillet’s racy style, con- 
taining a fine moral that mothers, who are in haste to marry 
their daughters to men of wealth and position, without charac- 
ter, would do well to carefully note. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


£NTERTAINING STORIES BY 

MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON. 


i2mo. Bound only in cloth, 75 cents per volume. 
A Lost Wife. The Cost of a Lie. 

This Wicked World. A Devout Lover. 

A Life’s Mistake. Worth Winning. 

Vera Neville. Pure Gold. 

In a Grass Country. 


Jack’s Secret. 

i2mo. Cloth, 75 cents; paper, 50 cents. 

“ Mrs. Cameron’s numerous efforts in the line of fiction have 
won for her a wide circle of admirers. Her experience in 
novel writing, as well as her skill in inventing and deline- 
ating characters, enables her to put before the reading public 
stories that are full of interest and pure in tone .” — Harrisburg 
Telegraph. 


']:he novels of 

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY. 

i2mo. Cloth, 75 cents; paper, 50 cents. 

Mary St. John. Heriot’s Choice. 


i2mo. Bound only in cloth, 75 cents. 

The Search for Basil Lyndhurst. 


Wooed and Married. 
Nellie’s Memories. 
Queenie’s Whim. 

Not Like Other Girls. 
Wee Wifie. 


Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 
For Lilias. 

Robert Ord’s Atonement. 
Uncle Max. 

Only the Governess. 


“ Mrs. Carey’s novels may be compared to a tranquil back- 
water out of the main current of the turbid stream of modern 
fiction. The graces and charities of domestic life are treated 
by her with never-failing sympathy and refinement .” — London 
Athenceum. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


CT.ORIES BY 

FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR 


ON BOTH SIDES. 

l2mo. Cloth, $ 1 . 2 ^. 

“A novel, entertaining from beginning to end, with brightness that 
never falls flat, that always suggests something beyond the mere amuse- 
ment, that will be most enjoyed by those of most cultivation, that is clever, 
keen, and intellectual enough to be recognized as genuine wit, and yet 
good-natured and amiable enough to be accepted as the most delightful 
humor. It is not fun, but intelligent wit; it is not mere comicality, but 
charming humor; it is not a collection of bright sayings of clever people, 
but a reproduction of ways of thought and types of manner infinitely en- 
tertaining to the reader, while not in the least funny to the actor, or 
intended by him to appear funny. It is inimitably good as a rendering of 
the peculiarities of British and of American nature and training, while it 
is so perfectly free from anything like ridicule, that the victims would be the 
first to smile."— 714# Critic. 


BEHIND THE BLUE RIDGE. 

i2mo. Cloth, $ 1 . 2 ^. 

" It is lightened through and through by humor as subtle and sponta- 
neous as any that ever brightened the dark pages of life history, and is 
warmed by that keen sympathy and love for human nature which trans- 
figures and ennobles everything it touches ." — Chicago Tribune. 

" Intensely dramatic in construction, rich in color, picturesque in de- 
scription, and artistic in its setting. No more delightful picture of the 
every-day life of the Virginia mountaineers could well be imagined." — 
Philadelphia Record. 


A SHOCKING EXAMPLE, 

AND Other Sketches. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

" Rarely have we enjoyed a more delightful series of literary enter- 
tainments than have been afforded by the handsome volume containing 
fourteen stories and sketches from the bright pen of Frances Courtenay 
Baylor, whose ‘ On Both Sides' has won for her so enviable a reputation 
on both sides of the Atlantic ." — Boston Home Journal. 


Miss Baylor’s complete works (“ A Shocking Example,” “ On 
Both Sides,” and “ Behind the Blue Ridge”), three volumes, in 
box, i^3.75. 

For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


“ One of the best, if not, indeed, really the best story from her 
pen.” — Boston Traveller. 



MARION HARLAND, 


AUTHOR OF “ALONE," “TRUE AS STEEL," ETC. 


12mo. Cloth., $126. 


She has written a story of great beauty, and of historical value. 
It is historical in the double sense that it introduces real characters of 
Colonial Virginia, and is one of the few novels of the day that will 
stand the test pf time and remain a mark of the progress of American 
fiction. It is\i», stately and elegant composition from beginning to 
end.” — AVw Vor^ World. 

“ This sad, yet winning tale of colonial times in old Virginia 
comes to an appreciative reader like a strangely real glimpse of life 
and love and hate and jealousy in bygone days. It is an excellent 
story.” — Cincinnati Commercial Gazette. 

“ We all know how charmingly Marion Harland writes ; and in 
her latest work she quite surpasses all previous efforts. Of the char- 
acters which she delineates, the strongest is Col. William Byrd, but it 
is his daughter Evelyn around whom the greatest charm centres, and 
w’hom we must admit is a most exceptional character.” — Sprin^eld 
Republican, 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent, post-paid, 
on receipt of price. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 


PHILADELPHIA. 



Military Novels 

By Capt. Charles King, U.S.A. 


CAPTAIN BLAKE. 

With Illustrations. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

The Colonel’s Christmas Dinner, and Other 

Stories 

The Colonel’s Daughter. With Illustrations 
Marion’s Faith. With Illustrations . 
Starlight Ranch, and Other Stories . 

Kitty’s Conquest 

Laramie; or. The Queen of Bedlam 
The Deserter, and From the Ranks 
Two Soldiers, and Dunraven Ranch 


I 



“It is a relief, indeed, to turn from the dismal intro- 
spection of much of our modem fiction to the fresh natural- 
ness of such stories as these .” — New York Critic. 

“No military novels of the day rival those of Captain 
King in precision and popularity .” — Boston Courier. 

“As descriptions of life at an army post and the vicissi- 
tudes, trials, and heroisms of army life on the plains, in 
what are called ‘times of peace,’ the novels of Captain 
King are w’orthy of a high and permanent place in 
American literature. They will hereafter take rank with 
Cooper’s novels as distinctively American works of fic- 
tion .” — Army and Navy Register.^ Washington, D.C. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. LIppincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 





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